A Brick in the Wall
by elflingskitten
Summary: Finally, here it is. I so almost didn't post this. Very high H/C content at times, especially in the second half- that and other SIGNIFICANT warnings will be posted by chapter, please read them! No slash. This story really got away from me lengthwise; I hope you're as desperate for C! fic as I am.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**

I don't own any part of Combat!, and have no rights to it or the excerpt from Harper Lee's excellent book. Thank you to those entities that do for letting me borrow them. No tangible profit is made whatsoever. For entertainment only.

**A/N:**

There are at least two fine authors I'm indebted to; acknowledgements will be given by chapter. Also, I rarely give translations for foreign language. I always liked that about Combat!. It was almost like there was a second, hidden storyline going on. I have Google Translate as a quicklaunch on my toolbar for when I read stories like that. Italics mean different things, hopefully guided by the context.

**Warnings:**

My usual: I don't like slash and will never write it. I do, however, love stories about close friendship and I'm a H/C/Angst addict, and this story reflects that. I like to think the writing's not too bad, but it's still a high-octane Hurt/Comfort slopfest, especially in the second half. You've been warned.

That and other **significant** warnings will be posted by chapter as needed. Please read them!

If you're still around after _that_ sales pitch, enjoy.

* * *

**A Brick in the Wall**

___"—I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do." _

_From "To Kill a Mockingbird"_

* * *

S.S. Hauptmann Wolfgang Ehrlich looked into his prisoner's eyes and saw… just what he expected to see. Even if the American's actions in the field hadn't indicated it, to Ehrlich it was obvious.

The German captain seemed to be excluded from that general law of the cosmos that said that those completely without honor, without conscience, couldn't recognize it in another. Like dumb, outraged Mastiffs, most like him could only tilt their heads or blink their empty eyes in confusion, then lash out in reflexive violence. Though emotionally unstable, Wolfgang Ehrlich was different, even if the outcome was the same. He lacked the noble things but always knew them when he saw them.

He saw them now.

An immovable object gazed steadily back at him, through Siberian-blue eyes. Taking the other's measure, as his own was being taken.

Ehrlich nodded to himself. He knew his type. No information would be obtained. As far as the sergeant was concerned it was as though he didn't even know it to give it; it was that inaccessible. He would endure, simply because that was what was before him; like a horse standing in the rain.

The wind picked up outside as the anticipated storm moved in, and Ehrlich listened to it dig at the cracked windows as he considered his enemy. What really intrigued and irritated him with men like this one was that he _knew_ there was someone, somewhere who completely held this soldier's loyalty. For that fortunate commander this man would probably run headlong into machine-gun fire, but Ehrlich himself could beat him to death and he wouldn't tell him water was wet.

The captain smiled and took a half-step forward into the American's space, only because that was the next step in the time-honored dance of intimidation. After the events of the last few hours he didn't have any expectation for it, though, and watched as the man narrowed his eyes and slightly shifted his stance—_toward_ Ehrlich. The sergeant kept his weight balanced; his changing posture just waiting for the slightest weakness, the smallest of distractions.

Yes, Ehrlich decided, this man would submit to only whom he chose and nobody else. In this little ruined house in a little ruined corner of France, though, that changed nothing.

The captain started the requisite slow pacing around his captive as he thought. There were two important installations near here even the Wermacht didn't know about, and vague rumors of a build-up of the local Resistance had attracted the interest of the Gestapo. This was the third Allied patrol caught in this area in a week—and the first offering survivors. The S.S. wanted control of this area, which meant getting results before the Gestapo.

Ehrlich actually thought the patrols were a coincidence, but they needed information, badly. They _needed_ an officer, preferably a captain or higher. There had been a lieutenant with this squad, but one of those idiots had killed him.

Aside from the two privates held in the barn, that left only his angry new toy: Saunders, Sergeant, 2270622.

Ehrlich stopped in front of the sergeant and held his eyes for a moment, then inclined his head in a cold but sincere acknowledgement. It was the only gesture of respect he would give him. From this point on, it would only be pain and violence. Ehrlich turned and shouted to where his men waited. "_Bringen Sie einen Stuhl, und das Seil. Und nehmen Sie seine Jacke aus!_"

At this point that didn't need a lot of translation. The American sergeant exhaled out a long breath, forcing his body to relax, and focused on a point on the far wall over Ehrlich's left shoulder. And Ehrlich was sure; in those blue eyes, he saw barriers settle into place.

_Just seven hours earlier... _

"C'mon, Caje!" Kirby cajoled. He leaned forward and whispered, though Caje didn't know why he bothered—Kirby whispered louder than most people spoke. "They just got paid!"

"I think your deck has fifty-six cards in it, Kirby. Not today." Caje watched as the other private pulled a bent cigarette from his shirt pocket and fumbled to light it with his bandaged left hand, before wincing and switching to his right.

"Ya know what your problem is, Caje? You can't recognize a superior force when ya see it." He sniffed haughtily. "Makes ya bitter."

Kirby turned to where his squad leader sat in a pool of sunlight, reassembling a Thompson sub-machine gun. The non-com's helmet was off and wild tufts of golden hair glinted in the dewy light as he moved. "Sarge, whaddaya think about all this?"

"I think you're both shy a full deck," the sergeant said seriously, then ruined the effect with a friendly smirk. Saunders turned back to the task of cleaning his weapons. He was tired, sore, and his boots had been wet for three days, but right now he felt like he was at a resort.

The morning sun was soft and warm for an early November day, and nobody was currently shooting at him, or his charges. Their banter flowed over him like the sunlight.

Even cleaning his hardware was a nice change. It was actually a chore he'd always found to be soothing, and one he rarely indulged in anymore. Caje usually did it, claiming it was barely any extra effort to do the SMG and the Colt when he was already cleaning his own rifle. He'd started the habit a couple months ago, at the end of another one of those interminable, nightmare missions where the squad got little sleep and the squad leader got none.

Saunders paused in his housekeeping to look up at where the Cajun was poking Kirby in the chest and threatening him about something. There had been a time where he wasn't sure Caje would ever even speak to another GI, much less be friends with him. Saunders had been there when Caje's best friend Theo had died, on the open killing field that was Omaha Beach. Had witnessed in watchable speed as Paul Cadron LeMay went from a broken, grieving man to a capable, lethal soldier, in a day.

In a day Caddy had died, and Caje was born.

And this new, careful Caje, whom Saunders had heard many times advising new recruits on the dangers of getting close, could now almost always be found wherever Kirby was, and vice-versa. Saunders could shout either name, and both heads would pop up. A quiet, French-speaking Cajun, hanging around a loud-mouthed Chicago street punk who whined like a toddler and fought like a lion. Both of them loyal, highly competent, and brave to an unhealthy degree.

So maybe not so mismatched, after all. Such was the nature of war. There was no other instance in all of human experience where close kinship was more desperately needed, more intensely sought, or more foolishly obtained.

Kirby batted away Caje's poking finger and dropped into a fighter's crouch, dancing back and shadowboxing with the Cajun, for no other reason than to irritate his already-irritated friend. Then he grunted and tucked his left hand under his right armpit. "Ow."

Caje sneered at him with empty contempt. "Tough guy, eh?"

"Yeah, well, whatever." Remembering his original question, Kirby turned back to Saunders.

"C'mon, Sarge, ya know that's not what I meant," Kirby said, massaging his aching hand while carefully avoiding his fingers. "I mean how long are we gonna stay in this boring burg?"

Saunders lifted his head to watch Lieutenant Hanley striding toward them. "However long we're told to, Kirby."

The non-com pushed himself to his feet and waited for the officer.

Hanley looked at Kirby, slouching against a wooden post. "As you were," he said sarcastically, then turned to where Saunders was gearing up to start peeling strips off and gave him a 'not now' head-shake.

Hanley motioned to the sergeant and they'd started to step away when a gangly private suddenly bumped up alongside the non-com and snapped off a nervous salute. "Sir!"

Saunders turned on him and growled, annoyed. "What did I just explain to you not twenty-four hours ago, Philips? Are you tryin' to get someone shot?"

Hanley gave Saunders a quick, long-suffering look, then turned to the private. "Did your sergeant explain to you about saluting officers in the field, Private?"

"Y-yes, sir." Philips stammered.

"Then understand this, Private Philips. That was not a suggestion. There might be a few who expect it but the smart ones don't. Pay attention to what you're told, it just might keep us both alive." He turned back to Saunders. "I'm hard to miss as it is," he said dryly.

The sergeant only grunted in agreement. At six-foot-four, with broad shoulders and movie star looks, Hanley could've just stepped out of a ROTC recruitment film.

Saunders would have never said it out loud but as an experienced soldier, if he were a German sniper arbitrarily choosing targets he'd go after Hanley, regardless of any visible rank. The man could walk around in pajamas and still look like an officer. He just carried himself that way.

Uncomfortable with this train of thought, Saunders did a quick, visual sweep of the area, then turned to Philips. "Go check your gear and wait with Caje."

"Yes sir, uh, Sarge. Okay." Philips twitched like he wanted to salute again, then turned and hurried away, while Hanley smirked.

Saunders sighed tiredly and looked at the officer. "What's up, Lieutenant?"

All business, Hanley reached into his jacket and pulled out a map, stepping toward the hood of a nearby jeep. "S-2 has a little mystery they want checked out, about three miles east of Checkpoint Easy. A small, quiet patrol. No engagement." He spread the map out and indicated the area. "Pick three men, rations and ammo for two days."

"_Pick_ three men, Lieutenant? I only have three men! Littlejohn's still at the 25th Evac, Billy's on emergency leave, and Kirby's got two fingers broken—you saw Philips— I probably haven't shaved since he's been out of Basic! He runs around like a… like a cat in a dog pound." Saunders ran down and heaved a sigh. He knew Hanley was already aware of these facts; he'd given them to him himself. He also knew the lieutenant hadn't been afforded any more choice than he himself was now.

Where at another time he might have crawled the NCO—and another officer would surely have—Hanley only canted his head and gave him a look. It was that rare combination of wry amusement and fraternal affection, given with a soft, brief smile. One he seemed to give only to Saunders, once in a blue moon.

"And you know, that's what makes me so glad to be a lieutenant. I have sergeants to take care of these things." He tucked the map back into his jacket. "We move out in fifteen."

"We, sir?"

"I'm going with you. S-2 wants an officer along, and for once I agree. I've been staring at forms and maps for so long I see them when I close my eyes. Need out." He swiped a hand over his tired face. "Fifteen minutes, Sergeant."

Saunders called to him as Hanley turned to leave. "What about Doc?"

"This patrol has to be kept small, and we might need every gun. Besides, you know he's with third squad today, and they won't be back until long after we leave." With that, he turned to trudge back to the CP for his gear.

Saunders stood for minute and watched him walk away, trying to understand the reason for the soft dread starting to whisper in the back of his mind. Was it because Hanley was going, or because Doc wasn't? Or both? The sergeant's instincts were long honed to a new razor's edge and almost never wrong, and before he headed back toward what was left of first squad, he glanced toward Hanley's CP and considered the one thing he _was_ sure of: Careful Caje had been right.

* * *

"What are you doing, _Pote_?"

William Kirby decided to not grace a stupid question with a stupid answer. That didn't deter his ambidextrous tormentor, though.

"Are you planning to get any of that into your mouth?" Caje asked. Kirby plunked the spoon down and gave up. It seemed so vastly unfair that he had to struggle to eat something that was inedible. Struggle he could do, and inedible he could do, but both at once? He lifted his malevolent glare from his 'food' to his 'friend'.

"Yeah, ya know what? Why don't you go—"

"Saddle up!" Saunders shouted, and nobody would ever know what Kirby thought Caje should go do.

A rattle of weapons, gear, and discarded tins of half-eaten rations could be heard as men jumped to their feet and scrambled to get ready.

Saunders turned to where Kirby was already adjusting the straps that supported the weight of the Browning's heavy ammunition. "Not you, Kirby."

"Aw now, Sarge, you gotta be jokin'!"

"Yeah, I am, Kirby. You can tell by the big smile on my face. Caje, Philips, Kalgren. Get ready."

Saunders looked over at where a husky, dark-haired private was calmly gathering his gear. If the impressions garnered after yesterday's brief skirmish were correct, this was one tiny bit of luck in an iffy situation. A hunter from west-central Pennsylvania, Tommy Kalgren hadn't been out of Basic any longer than Philips, but he was at least a year older, comfortable with a rifle, and good in the woods.

"Caje and Kalgren, ammo and rations for two days."

"Sarge, I can go! This ain't nuthin," Kirby said, waving his bandaged hand.

Caje looked at his friend, before he hurried to fetch their ordnance and help Kalgren with the rations._ Sure, Kirby, you're a goldbrick, _he thought. It was an image the B.A.R. man seemed to deliberately foster. _And Littlejohn's a ballet dancer._

Kirby truly was a complainer by nature, but to him it was just another form of communication, something Kirby seemed to need, almost constantly. Just bouncing sound waves off the people around him. Caje knew if Saunders had included Kirby, he'd be griping just as strenuously about having to go, dramatically wriggling his broken fingers; incidentally both of which had also been dislocated.

But it was more than that, now. They all felt it: the war was starting to wind down, and they were winning. Not the ever-present rumors borne of desperation and fear, but the real thing. They could _smell_ it. It was like woodsmoke in autumn; it smelled like hope.

And if you still had guys that had been with you since D-Day, well… the guys you didn't want to lose six months ago were now the guys you couldn't lose. Not when they were so close. Any cause for separation these days, anything that left a good man where he couldn't influence, couldn't protect, was not met well. Caje grinned affectionately while he piled up their ammo; he could still hear Kirby, all the way over here. _And_ Saunders.

"Come on, Sarge! You're gonna need me, I'm—"

"Kirby!" Saunders lifted his head and fixed the private with the hot, blue glare that was both legendary and feared throughout the entire battalion. If anyone had looked closely, though, they might have seen the smallest shadow of apprehensive agreement, and what could have been respect.

"I don't know if your mother's had a chance to point this out to you yet, Kirby, but here it is… you're left-handed. And even if you weren't, the B.A.R. takes two hands."

Saunders lit a cigarette while waiting for the others, the last one for what might be awhile. He stood hipshot for a minute and watched his men through the smoke curling up from the Lucky. Tugging the camo helmet off his head, he scrubbed one hand roughly through his chronically unkempt hair, before replacing it and surveying the scene again from under the pot's frayed edge.

He walked over to where Philips was fiddling with his web belt. "Philips," he said quietly. "Go find Caje, he should be over there somewhere," he pointed. "Tell him to grab some extra ammo and grenades, okay?"

"Uh, okay, Sarge. How come?"

"Don't you worry about that, just do as you're told."

* * *

Hanley stood, watching as their respective ammunition and grenades were parceled out, and raised an eyebrow at Saunders. Caje had added his own slight increase on top of the extra that Saunders had requested, and it was an unusual amount of weight to add to a considerable hike.

The lieutenant just shook his head and stepped forward to accept his share. Over these long months he'd encountered many men who had bucked Saunders' instincts. Almost all of them were dead.

After the supplies had been distributed and Caje briefed on their route, Kirby watched as Saunders turned and sauntered toward where Hanley was waiting. He grumbled at the scout, standing next to him. "Well, that just tears it! What am I supposed to do, just sit on my butt an' count rocks?"

Caje reached into the pocket of Kirby's jacket, pulled out his playing cards, and slapped them up against the rifleman's chest as he walked past him. "Here. You can play fifty-six pickup."

"Yeah, real funny, Cajun. I'm rollin' on the ground."

Kirby watched as the squad filed into the treeline and vanished, swallowed by the woods a man at a time. He unclenched his aching hand with effort and shook his head. "Gonna get themselves out in the middle of nowheres, an' then the wheels'll come off. Then they're gonna wish ol' Kirby was with 'em." He was surrounded by men but talking to himself; second squad was getting ready to leave for their own corner of paradise, somewhere.

Realizing he was still staring at the spot where his friends had disappeared, Kirby dropped to sit on an also-abandoned ammo case and shook out a broken cigarette. "No dames… no booze… no action. This lousy, boring town. Lousy fingers. Lousy, _stinkin'_ France…"

* * *

_I have absolutely no right to ask for reviews, but I do want to know how many people are still reading in this extremely worthy but seemingly dwindling fandom. Just click the mike twice to let me know you're there, LOL. _

_I will update within the next few days, a week at the very most._


	2. Chapter 2

Soft breezes and golden sunlight made no impression whatsoever on the dark-haired man moving through it all. His attention was reserved solely for the things or the subtle traces of things that could kill him, or his companions. Snipers, trip-wires, and mines, to name only a few. And of course movement of any kind, whether it was on the ground, the horizon, or in the trees. There wasn't much that escaped the Cajun's notice.

They were only a couple miles out when there was suddenly a slight difference in the cadence of the footsteps behind him. A quiet murmur followed, and he knew Hanley had dropped back to confer with Saunders, who was rear-guard. He wondered if they felt it, too. No, he was sure Saunders did, could tell even without the last minute ammo increase. Caje was tightly attuned to every possible shade of the man's mood, and knew he sensed it. Something so slight as to be imagined, but there.

Impending doom.

Hanley slowed his stride slightly. He motioned Kalgren and Philips past and matched pace with Saunders. The sergeant walked alongside him for a few seconds, then turned to walk backwards, carefully checking their back trail, stepping slightly to the right when Hanley tugged him to that side to avoid a rotting stump. He turned back around.

"Something's bothering you. What is it?" Hanley asked, without preamble.

They both scanned the terrain before them, and Saunders again glanced back. He shook his head. "I don't know… I can't put my finger on it." He looked briefly at the officer. "What can you tell me about S-2's mystery, Lieutenant?"

Hanley made a face. "Not much to tell. The Brits lost a patrol in that area. No bodies found, no equipment, nothing." He looked ahead to his scout, and at the woods alongside. "Then, three days later, a crew laying wire for the 329th. They found them, though." He spoke without turning, his deep baritone low and soft. "Every one of them."

He ducked his head under a branch that only brushed the top of Saunders' helmet, and looked over at where the sergeant was quietly processing what he'd been told. Saunders turned again to walk backward, Thompson held ready, and Hanley knew that even now the unconscious self-assurance in the sergeant's unique, rolling gait had nothing to do with having someone guiding him unnecessarily around tree stumps.

Saunders was a man easily underestimated. Much of the time he looked like an unmade bed—one that had been dropped from an airplane, spattered with blood, and dragged through a hedge backward. But beneath the mud, blood, and ragged uniform of a buck sergeant was a compact frame, strong and durable, and within that frame beat the heart and mind of a natural-born strategist. One with the reflexes of a veteran frontline soldier, in his prime and armed to the teeth.

Not for the first time, Hanley was struck with how frightening it would be to have to fight this man, if he were on the other side.

Saunders looked forward, then around. "So for whatever reason, they're interested in that area."

Hanley knew where he was going with this; he'd gone there, too. They were both quiet for a moment, watching their surroundings. "It would seem that way."

Saunders faced him briefly, his voice low but intense. "Lieutenant, what makes S-2 think we have any better chance than the others did? Based on what we know, 'small and quiet' isn't working! A five-man patrol? We need to go in in force, or call in a fire mission and sift through what's left."

Hanley slipped his finger out of the carbine's trigger guard to flex his hand and scratch at where the sweat had trickled down the side of his neck. With Saunders he didn't always have to verbally adhere to the 'support your superior's orders as if they were your own' tenet. They both knew he would.

"That's what _I_ told them. But how big a force? And if they are watching that area, why? We need intel, Saunders, no matter what we do." He spared him a quick, searching glance. "You know that as well as I do."

The sergeant sighed and checked their six, frustrated with himself. "I know. I just—"

At that moment Caje stopped, and instantly both Hanley and Saunders froze in unison and held their collective breath, ready to drop. After a careful minute, the scout waved the all clear and continued on.

They moved on but didn't relax. "He's nervous." Hanley observed.

"He should be," Saunders muttered.

"Look, it's not as though everyone that wanders through there gets it. The Brits looked for their people, and our recovery team found the Comm guys and left. And we're forewarned." Even as Hanley spoke, he himself could hear how weak it sounded. "I wanted more men but we're short-handed, and this is what we've got. We've done this before. We go in, we look around, we leave. Piece of cake."

They would soon be entering the target area, and Hanley moved forward to step past Philips and walk alongside Kalgren.

_Did he actually say that?_ Saunders thought. He scanned endlessly, watching more carefully now for the telltale reflection of light off glass, and checked behind them.

_Did he really say that out loud?_

Hanley moved up beside Kalgren and, still walking, gestured to bring Philips up, too. "From this point on no talking. Not even a whisper, unless it's important. Stay alert and no shooting unless we're fired on, or you're told to. Spread back out."

Kalgren nodded and ranged out; he was already stepping like a scared cat, careful and precise.

The lieutenant turned to where Philips was almost vibrating with terror and excitement, and changed his tack. This was a kid whose primary concerns, probably less than six months ago, were who he'd take to Homecoming and whether Dad would lend him the car on Saturday. If he was a source of frustration, _it wasn't his fault_.

"I know you're scared, Philips, we all are. But calm down, and pay attention," Hanley hissed. "Listen to me and to your sergeant, and it'll be okay. Got it? Calm down."

Philips broke his gaze away from Hanley long enough to look back at Saunders, then turned his wide eyes back to his lieutenant, and Hanley sucked in his breath. He'd seen that expression so many times now, and it just ate him alive.

That look would be the thing that ruined him.

As if he needed any more damage, it _always_ reminded him of an incident from his youth, when he'd been just nine years old and riding in his father's Packard, in a rural area. They'd come upon a deer that had just been struck by a car. He never could remember his father or sister there; only shimmering heat and bugs and the dawning pity of a young child. And a farmer coming forward with a rifle.

Young Gil hadn't understood then how things were, and the old man knew that.

"We can't leave her to suffer, son. Only cowards do that. Look away, now."

He hadn't. He'd looked into the doe's eyes. They were rimmed white with terror, and had held something even his child self had recognized: resignation. As though she and the farmer were reading from the same manual. Gil had jumped; the sound of a round being chambered had seemed so loud to him, then.

It was always the same look.

Philips was still staring at him. "Go on, spread out."

_Look away, now._

Hanley did a full sweep before he checked ahead to his scout, and before his mind even grasped the reason for it his instincts suddenly dumped adrenaline into his system. Caje had abruptly paused and now stood tensely, his head canted slightly to one side, and Hanley realized the bird and insect sounds that had been part of the fabric of existence just five seconds ago had stopped.

He saw Caje throw out a hand in the signal to drop at the exact same moment he heard the loud, frantic clatter of the Thompson and Saunders yelling from behind him.

"HIT IT!"

Hanley spread half a clip into the woods on his way to the ground, and suddenly the air was full of high-velocity lead from both sides of the trail. Vague shadows moved through the trees and he mindlessly spat out a mouthful of muddy grass and fired at them until the empty clip ejected. He clawed another from his belt and jammed it in.

And just like that, they were fighting for their lives.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the delay, everyone. This chapter is kind of short, but I'll post again within the next two days.

Also, thanks so much to everyone who's taken the time to review. RDR, EPM (LOVE your work), and the others-Alice A, that was especially nice. Thank you everybody!

* * *

_Hanley spread half a clip into the woods on his way to the ground, and suddenly the air was full of high-velocity lead from both sides of the trail. Vague shadows moved through the trees and he mindlessly spat out a mouthful of muddy grass and fired at them until the empty clip ejected. He clawed another from his belt and jammed it in._

_And just like that, they were fighting for their lives. _

**Chapter Three **

Saunders dropped the spent mag from the Thompson, yanked another from his jacket, seated it, and emptied it.

The weather had cooled considerably and a wet haze combined with gunsmoke drifted through the woods. The tranquility of the pastoral scene overlaid with the ear-shattering roar of pitched battle was unsettling. In the surrealness of the forest it seemed like there was movement all around them, and Saunders had seen enough action to know shifting shadows didn't necessarily equal numbers, but he suspected this time it did. They were catching it from both sides. It was a poorly chosen area for an ambush, but the fact remained: they were in a crossfire.

As the only source of automatic fire the sergeant garnered more than his share of attention. He felt and heard a loud clang as a slug clipped his helmet, and another sent sawdust exploding from his little tree stump into his already-tearing eyes. The Thompson was almost smoking hot and bucked in his hands as he poked it up and hosed the area he thought they'd come from. Two of the shadows jerked but he never saw them fall; he was already shooting at someone else.

Even as he poured ordnance into the woods his mind automatically catalogued the other members of the squad, their status and locations. With Hanley and Caje he was intimately familiar with their different weapons and habits, and assessed them almost instantly.

Under their initial fusillade Caje had slithered back through the dirt and exposed tree roots and was now about six feet away on Saunders' left side. The almost constant fire from Hanley's carbine was maybe five feet back; somehow he'd ended up behind them.

From the left side of Saunders' extreme peripheral vision he suddenly saw the quick, smooth movement he associated with someone throwing a grenade. He started to pull that way when both Hanley and Caje fired in that direction at the same time, and even while appreciatively noting the decimating explosion of a failed throw, Saunders swung back to the right and sprayed the entire treeline, to fill in the absence of fire on that side.

He threw down the empty magazine, reloaded, and looked around. It was time to go. Caje and Hanley were both top-level riflemen, and it was only the blistering level of fire the three of them had been putting out that was keeping them from being overrun. Time to go.

Saunders spared a quick glance behind him as he yanked back the bolt on the SMG and opened up again, swiping desperately at the sweat and dirt running into his eyes and obscuring his vision. Maybe there hadn't been as much of an absence on that right side as he had thought—he'd almost forgotten about Kalgren and Philips.

Kalgren was behind and to his right, and between throwing out short bursts at anything that so much as twitched, Saunders watched him fire, dropping a Kraut who'd only popped his head out from behind a tree for an instant. The private hunkered down for a moment before he crept back up, brought his rifle to his shoulder, and peeked out, waiting. He fired again.

He had a method some might find slow, but one Saunders had already seen was effective. He'd pick a target and lay low, waiting for it to show, and then hit it, every single time. Saunders had no doubt he'd been slowly but steadily thinning out the opposition.

They all were. In a situation that was thoroughly hopeless. It was time to go.

Bullets suddenly stitched a line a couple inches in front of him and Saunders buried his face in the loam, panting and breathless. Just a few pounds of dirt and weeds between him and eternity. He sent out a volley, then jerked around to look at where Philips had crawled up and curled into a ball.

"Get that rifle up!" Saunders screamed at him. At the first shots the non-com had seen where the kid had tried, poking the rifle out and shooting blindly, but as the noise had risen to a din the private had folded in on himself.

Saunders reached over and grabbed a fistful of his jacket, yanking him up and shaking him. "You get that rifle up! Get ready to fall back! We need cover and if you don't start shooting at Krauts, I swear I'll kill you myself!"

Philips hunched tightly for a second and made a sick, keening sound but dragged himself up, stuck the gun out, and started firing.

Another shadow darted through the trees holding the distinct outline of a German hand grenade and Saunders dropped it with a short burst. This was completely untenable. Stumps and deadfalls gave them fairly good cover, but that was it.

As far as Saunders was concerned, the fact they were all still alive was a God-given miracle. Caje had thrown out the signal at almost the same moment the sergeant had seen one of the dark splotches in a forest full of dark splotches move. They'd bought them a single second to seek cover and nothing more. It was surely just a matter of moments before one of those grenades slipped through their meager defenses.

Time. To. Go.

Saunders had a sudden feeling it was about to get close and dirty. "Fix bayonets!" he shouted, raking both sides of the trail. At times like this it was so good to have an experienced officer like Hanley with them, who didn't resent shared command. Indeed, Hanley echoed the order. "Fix bayonets!"

In anticipation of the command to fall back, Saunders pulled a grenade from his jacket with his left hand while still firing short bursts from the Thompson with his right. He reloaded while yelling to Caje through the clamor and when the Cajun looked over, he signaled what he wanted. Caje nodded and pulled his own grenade free.

_"_Fall back!" Hanley yelled, his voice almost lost in the constant gunfire. "Withdraw!"

From beside Saunders Philips whimpered and truly, in spirit Saunders whimpered with him. They would probably be cut to pieces trying to move, but they definitely would be if they didn't. Saunders echoed the order out of habit and pulled the pin. "Fall back!"

He leapt to a crouch and was about to let the spoon fly when he heard a sound he'd heard many times before and sometimes heard in his sleep. To an experienced infantryman a grenade landing makes pretty much the same dull sound every time, and Saunders' hindbrain mutely screamed in terror while the rest of him twisted in a hopeless attempt to reach for it.

He jerked around just in time to see Hanley whip the masher back into the woods, hopefully right back where it had come from. It exploded while airborne, maybe eight feet off the ground, and in the midst of men shrieking in agony the lieutenant turned a muddy, terrible visage to his men and bellowed, "GO!"

* * *

In the heightened peripheral awareness afforded him, Hanley simultaneously registered Kalgren running past him and Saunders and Caje throwing their grenades, deeply into each side of the trail. The lieutenant reached down with one hand and almost yanked Philips off his feet, bodily hurling him in the right direction before he took off himself, firing constantly as he ran. Over the ear-splitting noise of the grenades exploding Hanley could hear Saunders right behind him, almost stepping on his heels while burning through an entire magazine. Caje, too.

They'd made it. Hanley couldn't believe it. The whole lot of them might die in the next sixty seconds but against all odds, they'd made it off the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

Ok, guys, here goes. Before I get on with the warnings, I want to say how crazy grateful I am for the response I've gotten to this story. Bayo! Thank you! When I saw that I was like, no way. Bayo? Seriously? I've been following your escapades for years, you and the others. Thanks again. And RDR (Rosie?), that was so encouraging. You got me through a bad day at work, LOL.

On to the warnings. The most serious one is for a few moments of gore. Short but definitely graphic enough to disturb some readers. Warnings also for violence, H/C, and lots of angst.

OK, go and fetch your favorite snack and settle in, this is the longest chapter so far. Enjoy. (I hope)

* * *

_In the heightened peripheral awareness afforded him, Hanley simultaneously registered Kalgren running past him and Saunders and Caje throwing their grenades, deeply into each side of the trail. The lieutenant reached down with one hand and almost yanked Philips off his feet, bodily hurling him in the right direction before he took off himself, firing constantly as he ran. Over the ear-splitting noise of the grenades exploding Hanley could hear Saunders right behind him, almost stepping on his heels while burning through an entire magazine. Caje, too._

_They'd made it. Hanley couldn't believe it. The whole lot of them might die in the next sixty seconds but against all odds, they'd made it off the ground._

**Chapter Four**

Caje ran blindly through the woods, panting the whole way. Not with exertion-he could run for miles before that happened, but with fear.

His own adrenaline-heightened senses detected sounds moving through the woods behind and alongside them, as though the whole section of forest they'd just left had pulled up roots and was coming after them. He suddenly realized Hanley was running alongside him, breathing just as hard.

As always, Caje sought out Saunders. The sergeant was ahead and to the right of him and Hanley, going all out. He had his left hand clamped around Philips' arm, clearly forcing the private to keep up or be dragged. Or left behind.

Sudden movement to their far right caught Caje's attention, and he and Hanley both jerked in startled unison and brought their rifles up.

Time slowed to an awful, impotent crawl and Caje watched in abject disbelief as a young German inexplicably stepped out from behind a tree right in front of Saunders, who was running full tilt. The kid's eyes instantly widened with almost comical surprise, but there was nothing humorous about the rifle-mounted bayonet that was pointed right at the sergeant.

In one continuous, desperate movement too fast for Caje's eyes to follow, Saunders shoved Philips away and whipped the Thompson around in a blurred arc, only just deflecting the blade. The following impact almost sounded like trains colliding.

Hanley was reaching for the stunned Saunders while Caje was going after the stunned Kraut, when Philips suddenly danced into the Cajun's line of sight. Shrieking wildly and mincing his feet like one of Caje's sisters stepping on a spider, he thrust his own mounted bayonet into the supine German, then yanked the weapon free and took off, still wailing. He nearly bounced off Kalgren, who'd finally realized there was a problem and had run back to help.

Insanity aside, they all swept forward while bullets plucked leaves from the trees around them. Hanley snatched up Saunders' helmet and plunked it onto his head, while Caje hurriedly slung his rifle and grabbed up the dropped Thompson. He turned quickly and poured fire into the forest at their flanks, pausing just long enough to bend down and reach into Saunders' field jacket for a spare mag before opening back up.

Leaving the Cajun free for defense, Kalgren and Hanley half-dragged the sergeant, who unbelievably enough was fighting to get his legs under himself and run, surely before his lungs and diaphragm had even relaxed enough to take in air. Caje inwardly sighed in sympathy while he laid down cover. Most people would never understand how impossibly difficult it was, doing _anything_ after the wind had been knocked out of you, much less running for your life. He knew, he'd done it before.

As they crashed through the undergrowth, Caje suddenly became aware of a faint voice wavering in and out of his hearing, and dread ran down his spine like cold rain. It was in German, and came from somewhere _ahead_ _of them_. It was hard to tell through the intermittent gunfire, but he thought maybe whoever it was was yelling the same thing, over and over. He looked across in time to see Saunders reaching for his Tommy gun, and from the look on his and Hanley's faces Caje knew they'd heard it, too.

That was it, then. They'd been run to ground.

Saunders' voice was strained and bleak with hopelessness. "Lieutenant," he grated out between desperate heaves for air, pointing slightly to the right with the SMG's muzzle. "Th… there… over there!"

Hanley looked ahead to where Saunders indicated and almost without thought, the tiny group shifted like a flock of sparrows.

Just visible through the dense growth in front of them, the forest ended suddenly and a meadow opened up. Hanley could now see in it what Saunders had spotted: a culvert, a ditch; he wasn't sure and didn't care.

In the back of his mind, even past the terror, Hanley resented this like he'd resented nothing else in his life. Being herded like rats, grateful for the offer of even a few seconds' respite. It galled him. He peered through the trees, far ahead to where the meadow ended and the forest's wall rose back up. Obviously, that was where the clean-up crew was waiting.

Waiting. For them.

"Open _up!_" Hanley screamed hoarsely. "Fire! The far side of the meadow, fire, _fire!_"

They broke from the trees at a dead run, pushing a withering veil of American lead ahead of them.

They fell rather than jumped into the trench, and Hanley's sharp mind noted with suspicious dread that not a single shot had been fired at them, at least from the treeline ahead. From behind them, though, still came sporadic fire. They all turned as one and started shooting back toward where they'd come from. At least, Hanley thought they all had.

Daniel Philips scrabbled his face into the wet, foreign muck of a country so far removed from his own it was like he was on another planet. He would die here, in this alien place. He sobbed with the awful grief of it. His parents were so far away it was as though they'd never existed. He was alone here. Lost. He would die here and nobody would ever find him.

Like a trapped animal he cast around desperately, looking for escape. There, right there! The ditch continued for several yards and past that was nothing, nothing but a patch of empty meadow! Even as he stared a bumblebee swayed from side to side and landed delicately on a weedy flower. Philips mindlessly threw himself to his feet and bolted, looking only at the meadow.

He was still looking at it when a pair of arms grabbed him from behind and spun him, then a hot flash of red blotted everything out and faded to black.

* * *

Saunders had no warning but an indistinct gurgle behind him, and from the corner of his eye he saw Philips jump up in plain sight and take off. The sergeant leaped at him, catching only air and a faceful of mud. "Grab him!" he shouted.

It went down the short line, Caje and then Kalgren clutching at the rushing private. Suddenly, Saunders could see what was going to unfold an instant before it happened, all of it, and he felt like he was crouched frozen while life and tragedy swept past him, when actually he was lurching forward and screaming in denial. The line ended with Hanley, and in a last ditch effort the lieutenant flung himself at Philips and wrapped his arms around him, twisting as he went to throw him to the ground.

Then the fire Philips had drawn intensified, focused on the only available targets. Saunders only reached them in time to be sprayed with blood and other terrible things, as first Philips' and then Hanley's head jerked back and both men dropped to land bonelessly on Saunders. Philips did, anyway. As the lieutenant was closer, Saunders had been reaching for him when the officer was hit, and he clutched clumsily at him as he went down.

The next few minutes were able to gouge things from Saunders that years of war hadn't been able to take from him. He could see at an anguished glance Philips was a lost cause; in addition to a chest wound there was nothing but a dark hole where his left eye had been.

Saunders' mouth watered and he clamped down on the need to vomit as he wiped wet chunks of bone and brain matter from Hanley's face with shaking fingers, trying to assess the damage. He was sure there was fresh blood gushing from somewhere on the lieutenant's head; he just couldn't tell where through all this gore. Saunders suddenly became aware there was another pair of hands, also scraping and checking.

He looked up. "Caje," he said thickly. Saunders' mouth was full of saliva and the taste of blood he'd unknowingly licked from his lips, and he turned away and hurriedly threw up. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Caje… get back on the line," he said numbly.

"Sarge, listen—"

"We're in easy grenade range from the south treeline…"

"Sarge!"

"… and stay low, at least a couple of those bastards out there are real good shots."

"Sarge, come on…" Caje pressed his fingers to Hanley's outflung wrist, confirming what he already knew. He breathed out a long sigh and checked over his shoulder at where Kalgren crouched warily, then peeked up just enough to visually sweep both enemy positions.

Saunders turned Hanley's head to one side, looking for things he didn't want to see, like holes. As he did his eyes fell to where the lieutenant's helmet lay after being knocked off his head. Speaking of holes, a perfectly round one was punched through, front and back. _Just like Grady_, Saunders thought bleakly. _Please, not again_. _I can't take that again._ Someone shook him suddenly and he jerked his head up to look at where his second had a fistful of his field jacket.

"Caje, get back on the line! One grenade is all they need and they're close enough to just—"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you!" Caje twisted to peer at the far treeline and looked back at Saunders. "That same guy was shouting, the one from before. The same thing, over and over." He hunched for a second and lowered his voice. "Sarge, I think he's telling them to hold their fire."

He sighed. "He started screaming a minute or so ago, right after Philips and the lieutenant were shot. They're tryin' to take us alive."

Saunders looked at Caje, then carefully scanned the north edge of the meadow. He breathed out through clenched teeth, furious that he had allowed himself to be so distracted he hadn't heard any of this. This was simply unforgivable. There wasn't much left of the squad, but what remained was his responsibility. He held their lives in his hands. Unforgivable.

He looked down at where Hanley lay, white and still. But _he_ was his responsibility, too…

"Sarge, he's—"

A hawk screeched overhead at that moment and they both startled slightly, taut nerves already stretched thin.

Caje heaved a frustrated breath and closed his eyes for a second. Maybe in the afterlife he would be allowed to finish his sentences. He lifted his head and looked at Saunders.

"Sarge, I think he's okay, it's just a graze. I didn't check his eyes, though. I sure hope he closed them in time."

"What?"

"Look." Caje gently tilted the lieutenant's head to the other side and brushed the blood-soaked black hair aside, exposing what he had only been able to see from his far angle. An ugly furrow along the side that was bleeding badly, as all head wounds of this type did. "It's a graze. All this other… this other stuff is from Philips."

Saunders looked again at the north treeline, then turned back to Caje, his gaze hardening.

Back in the saddle, he gestured at Hanley. "Stop that bleeding and clean that crap away from his nose so he can breathe. Then get me an ammo check, Philips, too. Check Hanley's sidearm."

He studied both treelines for a long minute, then rose to a low crouch and shuffled the few feet to Kalgren. The private jumped when Saunders laid a hand on his shoulder. "Scared, Kalgren?"

The husky soldier ludicrously peered sideways at the sergeant and chuffed out an almost hysterical laugh. "'M scared to death, Sarge." He blinked and looked down at himself. "Thought I crapped m'self for a minute there."

Saunders nodded. "Glad I'm not the only one. Scared to death, that is." He leveled a steady gaze at the man, making sure he had his attention. "You're doing fine, Kalgren."

The private craned his head back around and for a long minute, they both looked out at the suspiciously silent enemy. Kalgren turned, his knuckles white where they clenched his Garand. "I'm glad ya think so. I'm not used to critters shootin' back at me."

"Just stay alert and stay low. I don't have to tell you a couple of those Krauts are good shots. Watch for grenades." Saunders started to turn toward where Caje was crawling up to him when the private's quiet voice called him back. Kalgren didn't have to ask about Philips; he'd witnessed every second of that horror, frame by frame. "Is the lieutenant—"

"He's alive, they just grazed him. Stay sharp." Saunders scanned the area again and turned to his scout.

The Cajun gave his report, quickly and succinctly. "The bleeding's stopped and he's breathing okay. Philips has seven clips. I have two and a half, and Hanley's just shy of two for the carbine. The Colt's fully loaded plus one in the pipe, and he has the two clips on his belt for it." Caje looked over at Kalgren. "Kalgren, we need an ammo check."

The Pennsylvanian had been trained to keep track of his ammunition long before Boot Camp and answered after a moment's thought. "Four clips, plus—"

_"__**Americans!**__"_

All three whirled and lifted their weapons toward the south treeline, from where the shout had come. "He circled around!" Caje hissed. Saunders suddenly realized what he'd really known all along. The ammo check was unnecessary.

"Americans…"

Saunders could almost hear the dramatic pause. _Grandstanding_, he noted and filed.

"I am Captain Wolfgang Ehrlich, of the _Schutzstaffel_. Your position is quite hopeless, obviously," the voice stated drily, in flawless English. "No one else has to die. Throw your weapons out and stand up."

Saunders turned and slumped against the ditch's wall_._

_The S.S. That's why they're trying so hard to take us alive. _

Raw fear and recalled failure from the last time he'd encountered those monsters swarmed up at Saunders, and he quickly tamped down on the dark memories before they could short-circuit him.

"You have two minutes!"

Saunders fought to control his breathing. _It's the_ _S.S._ It would be a nice haul for them. Not only a sergeant—always popular with interrogators—but an officer. They'd be thrilled. Saunders looked over at where Hanley lay curled on his side, where Caje had put him. _They'll tear him to pieces._

Saunders was up and moving before he even had all the steps planned out. "Caje!"

LeMay slogged his way over on his knees to where Saunders was crouched next to the lieutenant and surveyed the meadow, automatically searching for the route the sergeant had in mind. He reached into his jacket for a grenade.

Saunders straightened and gestured at Hanley's waist. "Swap his cartridge belt out for Philips'. And check Philips for anything that might have his rank written on it, letters or whatever."

Caje understood now what Saunders meant to do, and anxiety washed through him. "But, Sarge—"

Saunders was already hunched over Danny Philips, affixing Hanley's bars to the private's collar. "Now!" he shouted.

Caje unfastened Hanley's gunbelt and crawled over. As his hands worked, he looked up at Saunders unhappily. "Sarge, you'll be the ranking prisoner."

"They'd've come after me anyway." Saunders' voice then roughened with grief and unspoken apology for the two privates. Three. Three privates. "Probably all of us."

Saunders laid Hanley's helmet beside Philips' head and tossed Philips' pot over to Hanley. Caje pushed his hands under the lieutenant and secured Philips' web belt, the one lacking the incriminating sidearm that only officers and NCOs carried.

"Sarge, you'll be the only—"

Saunders jerked his head up to finally look him in the eye. "What do you want me to do, Caje?" he interrupted harshly. "Toss him at them an' sit in the corner and have a smoke? You know what they do to officers." He gestured at Hanley. "He's already hurt. You've woken up from a bad concussion. Now imagine doing it while you're tied to a chair and someone's beatin' the crap out of you."

Caje shook his head helplessly. Well, of course he didn't want that for the lieutenant! He himself would have probably taken a bullet for the man, for crying out loud! But this was _Saunders_, once again thrown to the wolves…

Schutzstaffel_. The Schutzstaffel_. From the moment Caje had heard that word, jagged flashes of diligently buried trauma started clawing their way out of their assigned box and into his very busy consciousness. He closed his eyes now, only for a couple seconds, and still they played out.

_"This man struck one of the guards. He will die for that."_

He sucked in his breath. Caje knew he wasn't the only one that suffered from nightmares of their time with Steiner.

That was the bugaboo of having to sleep alongside one's squadmates: no privacy. The lack of it wasn't as much of a problem as some thought, and sometimes it was actually a blessing. They fought, killed, bled, scrabbled, and suffered, and after all that they were supposed to just lie down and sleep?

Strangely, lying awake in the dark and smelling the fresh, cool damp of deep night mixed with the contrary odors of a half-dozen men reeking of several days' worth of dried fear-sweat and matted blood was bizarrely comforting, almost protective. The reassurance of listening to others who'd been there in the gore and grief and terror, maybe now peacefully breathing soft and quiet, was of incalculable worth.

They would be eternally bound by these little things, Caje suspected. Sometimes he couldn't help but think even the survivors of this broad tragedy would never leave this place, not really. These men here right now would be able to understand in a way no one else ever could, and for the rest of their lives everyone else would be forever outside the perimeter.

But nightmares were _different_. No one should **_ever_** be privy to a strong man trotting out his greatest fears and worst failures for anyone to hear. Nobody on the friggin' _planet_ should be allowed to hear a man of Saunders' caliber whimpering in his sleep, but Caje had.

Whether merited or not, it was to the Cajun's shame his own nightmares about their captivity were always about his own promised execution; terrible last minutes never realized. But when Saunders cried out in the middle of the night, his voice raw with anguish and guilt, it was for Gates or Rankin or Caje or one of the others. Fearful for everyone but himself. Caje would lie awake and guard him on those rare nights, diverting or bullying sleepy questions, for the same reasons he cleaned the man's firearms when he could.

His moment up, Caje shook his head and opened his eyes to the here and now. The occasional round still snapped over their heads and he gazed around the damp, green meadow, so very desperate for another way out.

There just wasn't any cover. No cover meant no escape, and no escape meant… he glanced briefly over at Saunders before lifting his amber eyes to the heavy, cold sky. Yeah, he knew what they did to officers. It was pretty much the same thing they did to non-coms.

Meanwhile, Saunders had dropped to his knees and was going through Hanley's jacket and pockets. He should have done this first thing, he thought; they were so out of time. He found the map and a document he didn't recognize and looked around desperately, wondering where to hide them. His gaze fell to an empty magazine from the Thompson, discarded and half-mashed into the wet dirt. Maybe he could jam them in there somehow, surely nobody would look in there.

He shook his head and pulled out his Zippo. There was nothing on the map they hadn't already known, and his instincts fairly howled at him now to destroy the unknown document. Caje watched as he burned them both. "Sarge," he said quietly. "The S.S. won't take wounded prisoners, they never do. They'll kill him."

Saunders scraped mud over the ashes with his boot. "Maybe they won't."

"What if they try?"

"If it comes to that, I'll just have to tell them he's an—"

-THUD-

Saunders jerked when he heard that sound behind him, that same soft, dull sound. A grenade, it was a _grenade_. He twisted and scrabbled blindly for it, as another landed beside him, then another and another. He and Caje clawed hopelessly at them all. Saunders was almost sobbing by the time he went to heave them away, when he suddenly realized he was holding an armful of pine cones.

He gasped and collapsed against Caje. They sat panting, leaning against each other, and Saunders had a perverse moment in which he was glad he probably wouldn't have to worry about sleeping, after today. Definite nightmare material. The whole day was, for that matter.

That smug, amused voice came from the treeline again, and a level of hatred Saunders had rarely experienced before rose up.

"The next ones will not be pine cones," it called. "Throw out your weapons. Now."

"Sarge?"

Saunders looked over at where Kalgren was still holding a skinny pine cone in each hand. "What'll we do, Sarge?"

A hundred, a thousand scared voices from throughout the endless ages chased each other around in Saunders' head._ What'll we do, Sarge? Sarge, what are we gonna do, now? Sarge? _

_Well, what __**are**__ you gonna do, Sarge?_ He asked himself. He turned suddenly and rammed the muzzle of the Thompson as hard as he could into the soft dirt of the ditch's wall, jamming several inches of French soil into the barrel. Maybe they wouldn't check. Maybe someone would have a bad day.

Looking at Kalgren, he answered him by tossing the SMG out of the ditch. "Throw your rifle out."

Saunders raised his hands and stood, staring at the private. Unfortunate necessity and past experience hardened his gaze as Germans flowed from the nearby woods and rushed toward them.

"Name, rank, and serial number, Kalgren. Nothing else. The lieutenant's dead." He shook his head slightly. That glacial, blue glare didn't even flicker. "You say otherwise, and I'll kill you first chance I get."

Kalgren threw his rifle out and stood shakily with his hands up, his eyes not for the Krauts but for what he knew to be the greater threat. He understood Saunders' concern but couldn't help feeling slighted. He was a soldier, after all, from a family that had served faithfully since the war between the states.

"I won't say anything, Sarge, no matter what. Too bad about the lieutenant."

Saunders looked away from Kalgren and took a shuffling step toward Hanley, his hands still raised. The non-com was a master tactician, but perhaps his greatest skill lay in his ability to think on the fly. Everything now might rely on the tiniest, most insignificant of actions, at least as far as Hanley was concerned.

The first wave of Germans dropped into the narrow ditch and reached for Kalgren.

"Caje, move past me slowly, hands up."

Almost always on the same page, LeMay slid past him, smooth and deliberate, projecting as much of a meek and defeated image as a man like him could.

Saunders reached carefully for his own web belt, unfastened it, and made a show of throwing it away. He looked forward at where Caje was being manhandled, and decided he had another couple seconds, for what it was worth. Slow and even, he bent down and unhooked Hanley's web belt and left it where it fell, then pulled a limp arm around his neck and stood them both up, his own arm around the officer's waist.

They were all shoved roughly out the ditch and Saunders struggled to get Hanley's dead weight out and up, shaking his head when Caje started to reach back.

The sergeant stood firmly as his jacket was ripped open and he was aggressively searched, and his helmet was knocked off. One of them tried to jerk Hanley from his grasp but he widened his stance and tightened his hold, staring impassively forward while the Kraut shouted at him and pulled back a hand to hit him. The German next to that one pushed forward, waving the other away with an impatient noise and reached into Hanley's jacket to paw thoroughly at him, checking for weapons.

"Put him down."

All eyes turned to the speaker, and Saunders got his first look at their captor. At first glance he was completely unremarkable. Just a common man of average height with common dark, brown hair. Unremarkable and common, but for a bright, frightening glitter in otherwise intelligent hazel eyes.

Saunders' voice was steady despite the sudden realization that the reason for all his unease was standing right in front of him. "It's just a minor head wound. He's not hurt that badly."

The German officer calmly pulled a Luger from its holster and pointed it at the dark head. "Put him down or he won't be hurt at all."

In a sliver of time too small to be measured, Saunders considered odds and outcomes, and lowered the lieutenant to the ground.

When it was clear the sergeant wasn't going to back away from where he stood over the unconscious man, the S.S. captain turned and snarled in German. Before Saunders could even flinch he found himself lying on his back, the muzzle of the Mauser that sent him there currently grinding into the left side of his now-aching chest. From the corner of his eye he saw Caje freeze in arrested motion.

* * *

Hauptmann Ehrlich nodded his satisfaction. He knelt next to the wounded private and lifted the bandage wrapped around the man's head, smiling when the other Americans tensed.

He sighed deeply in regret. It really was a fairly minor wound. He would have liked nothing better than to shoot this damaged nothing in front of his comrades, but he wasn't going to allow the same mistake to be made twice.

Several days ago his troops had ambushed and decimated a British patrol, killing the major leading them and everyone else, save one wounded corporal. When the Engländer had insincerely been offered the chance to beg for his life, the fool—with no one but his enemy to witness his misplaced courage—only stared at his captors in grim silence. Ehrlich's lieutenant had placed his pistol to the man's forehead and put an end to him.

Ehrlich found out later that lowly corporal had been the major's adjutant. The only information that was acquired from that man was that he was stubborn.

Shaking his head at the memory now, Ehrlich stood, Luger still in hand. His sergeant pushed forward eagerly. "(Sir, let me!)"

"(No. He comes with us.)"

"(What? Sir, he's garbage! He'll only slow us down.)" the non-com insisted, still moving forward.

Ehrlich clenched his teeth. Even if he had intended to kill the GI, he wouldn't have for the simple reason that his sergeant thought he should. Feldwebel Schröder was an incompetent moron, but after that fiasco with the British corporal, Ehrlich was fresh out of lieutenants.

If given the choice Schröder's men would probably shoot at him before they fired on an Allied soldier, but at least he'd kept them in line. And Schröder possessed a single-minded cruelty that Ehrlich found endearing, like a vicious family dog.

Still, he'd had just about enough…

Schröder took the pause for permission and unlimbered the Schmeisser from his shoulder. Ehrlich allowed it to continue for a few seconds while he watched the other Americans. Chaos rose up as the Germans guarding the prisoners shouted and hit at them while the Amis struggled and shouted at Ehrlich. He wavered for a second, wanting so badly to execute their helpless squad-mate while they watched.

He sighed. You can't unkill a man. He could always do it later. Schröder, on the other hand…

Ehrlich finally turned to where the feldwebel was gleefully bringing his gun to bear on the crumpled form. Tired of the constant challenges and ongoing disobedience, he started to lift the Luger.

"(Give Lieutenant Reiniger my regards, Sergeant.)" he said coldly.

Schröder blanched and took a step back.

"No, don't!" The American sergeant suddenly shouted. "Don't shoot him, he's an…"

It took Ehrlich a quick moment to realize he didn't mean Schröder, and turned to where the blond GI still lay pinned on his back. Suddenly quiet, the sergeant looked from the captain to the feldwebel's white face and back again.

"He's a what, Sergeant?"

The most inscrutable poker-face in the entire 361st stared stonily back at him. "…he's an Allied soldier, taken in battle and uniform. We'll carry him, he won't slow you down."

Ehrlich stalked slowly over to stand near the sergeant's feet and studied him for the first time. The man could have easily passed for a purebred Aryan; blond hair, bright and cold blue eyes, and a sturdy build. He watched Ehrlich watching him, his head propped up on a rock, and going by the look on his face no one would have ever guessed he was lying flat on the ground with the barrel of a rifle gouging him in the ribs. There was no vulnerability in that open stare, none at all. Ehrlich nodded in approval.

"Perhaps I'll just shoot you instead, Sergeant. What is your mission here?"

The low, rough voice responded without hesitation. "Saunders. Sergeant. Two-two-seven-zero–six-two-two."

Ehrlich nodded again, unsurprised. Any idiot could have deduced he probably wasn't going to kill what was clearly a veteran sergeant when he just spared the life of an injured private, and the American was no idiot. Ehrlich would have to be insane to even consider it. He canted his head from where he stood over the man and smiled at him for a long moment, before turning away.

Saunders watched him step into the ditch and disappear from sight, probably checking out Philips. They'd know in a minute if he bought the ruse.

The sergeant forced himself to breathe evenly. His outer composure was solid, but it was costing him. He didn't mind admitting to himself that he was badly shaken.

He'd been so sure they were about to kill Lieutenant Hanley. For a second he doubted that even his status as an officer would have saved him. Saunders sighed and closed his eyes. He almost gave him up to that crazy bastard. He'd realized at the very last instant the captain wanted the American 'private' alive, which was actually pretty frightening in itself.

Saunders rolled his head on his rock pillow and gazed up at the German sergeant, who was staring at him through eyes dark with hatred. Saunders almost smirked at him despite himself. If he was right about what he thought was about to happen back there, then there was a Kraut living on borrowed time. One way or another, somebody was going to get him.

The S.S. officer who had identified himself as Hauptmann Ehrlich climbed out of the ditch and Saunders forgot about the feldwebel in a hurry. If Ehrlich had taken a moment to consider bullet holes and angles, or if they'd missed something with Philips… it might be Saunders-or worse, one of his charges-whose time was up.

Ehrlich stood at Saunders' feet again, looking down at him, and the non-com tensed when he saw Ehrlich was holding Hanley's helmet. Staring at the sergeant, he rolled the pot in his hands back and forth, back and forth. He looked down at it and wriggled a finger into one of the holes, then glanced back up at Saunders and smiled.

* * *

I'm sorry for yet another cliffie, it really wasn't intentional this time! I'll post as soon as I can.


	5. Chapter 5

Hi everyone,

As usual, thanks so much to my encouraging reviewers.

This chapter is rated for violence, H/C, and angst.

BTW, I feel compelled to point out the obvious- while I've made it clear Saunders will be alive after this chapter, Saunders doesn't know that.

* * *

_Ehrlich stood at Saunders' feet again, looking down at him, and the non-com tensed when he saw Ehrlich was holding Hanley's helmet. Staring at the sergeant, he rolled the pot in his hands back and forth, back and forth. He looked down at it and wriggled a finger into one of the holes, then glanced back up at Saunders and smiled._

**Chapter Five**

From scant feet away, Private Thomas Kalgren observed a scene more terrifying than any nightmare he had ever had. He turned his head to where the Cajun scout sat rigidly, having also been pressed to his knees. "Caje," Kalgren whispered.

"_Ferme-la_," the man muttered, not taking his eyes off the tense situation in front of them. His posture was as if it were carved out of rock and Kalgren took it all to mean 'shut your pie-hole.'

Like a little kid who had peeked under his bed and found the monster he'd known all along was there, Kalgren forced himself to look at Ehrlich, really look at him, and was absolutely certain he hadn't been fooled. The private shook with the fear of it all, so hard his teeth clattered.

He wasn't an idiot, from the moment he had signed up he'd anticipated being scared, but not like this_._

Contrary to what some might assume of him he was well-read. He loved history, his favorite topic being the first world war. His father's war. He'd read many horrifying, first-hand accounts of trench warfare, but even those couldn't have prepared him for the real thing; this sickening terror.

He turned his frightened gaze to Saunders. He knew he was afraid, too. He'd looked into the sergeant's eyes when he'd told him he was scared, and knew it was true. The non-com didn't show a shred of it now, though, and in that exact moment Thomas Kalgren realized he was looking at the embodiment of what he'd only just read about before: real courage.

Something his Drill Sergeant had said came to him; he could hear the man as though he were crouched down low in the leaves next to him, also watching the drama. "If some guy tells you he's not scared, stay away from him. He's a liar or a psycho, and he will get you killed."

Kalgren took a deep breath and surprisingly, the trembling eased slightly. Like Caje he now focused all his attention on Saunders, and very slowly, other emotions began to eclipse the terror. Respect, and outrage, and _anger_. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

He had to do _something_ about all this, anything. He just needed a chance.

* * *

Hauptmann Ehrlich lifted his head from his fascinated exam of the bullet holes in Hanley's helmet. He addressed Saunders as though they were two friends standing on the firing range, unaware the American sergeant was holding his breath.

"This was a good shot." Ehrlich's voice lowered slightly, quiet and soft with intent. "Don't you think so, Sergeant?"

He suddenly lifted the helmet high aloft, displaying its distinctive officers' markings, his finger still hooked through the bullet hole. "_Das war ein guter Schuss! Eine sehr gute Schuss,_" he shouted and smiled again. "_Welche meiner feinen Schützen ist verantwortlich für diese guten Schuss?"_

Saunders hissed a relieved breath out and watched him, eyes narrowed. He was pretty sure what the Kraut was asking and why, and he was mildly curious to see if any one of the several possible shooters was going to be foolish enough to…

"_Es war mir, mein Kapitän! Es war mein Schuss!"_ Saunders watched as a young German practically goose-stepped forward, smiling like he was having a yearbook picture taken. Saunders couldn't help glancing over to where Caje met his eyes in disbelief. _Green_, they thought at each other. Several of the Krauts imperceptibly shifted as far from the private as they could without actually moving.

Ehrlich sighed. "_Karl. Ja, du warst immer gut mit einem Gewehr. Wie dein Vater." _Before he finished the last sentence, he raised the Luger and shot him in the head at close range. Despite the fact that just about everyone expected it they all flinched, Germans and Americans alike. All but the captain. For a long, empty moment there was just the sound of the frigid wind stirring through the trees and their dead leaves.

Saunders looked away. Maybe if he wasn't fighting for the lives of his squad at this exact moment, he might have reflected on which was the greater tragedy: that a very young man had just been murdered or that apparently no one cared. Of course, there was also the matter of another very young man laying in a cold wet ditch with the back of his head blown away. Saunders closed his eyes, weary to his soul. Weary and very, very afraid.

Ehrlich addressed his men, obviously disgusted and furious. "_Ich wollte, dass Offizier! Und glaube nicht, dass ich nicht weiß, dass es andere. Ich werde dich finden, und es wird nicht schnell sein, wie er."_

The German captain turned to where Saunders lay and looked down at him for a full minute with dead, cold eyes. Wisps of smoke still curled from the Luger. "What is your mission, Sergeant? Why are the Allies so interested in this area?"

Saunders only stared at him in stony silence.

Ehrlich walked around the non-com's feet to suddenly drop into a crouch beside him. "Perhaps you think that since I have not put that cur private over there out of his misery, that I will not kill a sergeant, right now, this very minute."

Inclining his head toward the body of the soldier he just shot, Ehrlich leaned in so close Saunders could feel his hot breath against his cheek. His next words were very soft, almost whispered. "That boy was my nephew."

The sergeant turned his head to look into his eyes and if he'd been standing, he would have stepped back at what he saw._ He really is. He's insane._

Ehrlich brought the Luger up and pressed the warm muzzle to Saunders' temple. "My brother _begged _me to keep him safe," he hissed. "Do you really think I will not shoot _you_?" His face darkened in diffused rage. "You have five seconds to tell me why you are in this area, before I kill you. Five…"

Saunders stared at him, not daring to look away. "Four." The natural sounds around him went away, drowned out by his own pounding heartbeat and the German's ragged breathing. "Three." He thought he heard anguished calls from Caje and Kalgren through the muffling. "Two." _I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry. I really did try._

"My name is Saunders, my rank is ser—"

**BAM!**

All was quiet for a moment.

"Sarge?!" Caje yelled loudly, struggling to see past the suddenly shifting feet. "No! Sarge, answer me!"

The hauptmann looked at the sergeant, and the sergeant looked at him. Saunders' left ear rang from the shot fired past it. "My rank is sergeant," Saunders continued, breathless but calm. "Two-two-seven… zero-six… two-two."

"Sarge?!"

Neither Saunders nor Ehrlich looked away. "I'm alright, Caje."

The German smiled a slow, soft, wide smile. "For now."

After several long seconds, he stood. "(Get them up.)"

Saunders was yanked to his feet so quickly he almost went to his knees. His legs didn't want to hold him up. He forced himself upright and slowly moved the few steps to where Hanley lay in a sprawl of long limbs. He bent to check his breathing and the bandage, glad his hands were still free to do so.

For a moment he was a little concerned about how long the lieutenant had been out, then realized to his shock it probably hadn't even been forty-five minutes since he'd been shot. Saunders lifted his head and gazed unseeing into the far distance, trying to fight off the despair. This was already one of the longest days of his life, and it wasn't even noon.

Ehrlich called for Schröder. Saunders thought maybe that was the German sergeant's name, and turned to watch with a mixture of apprehension and mean amusement as the man approached his CO. If it were possible for someone to crawl on their hands and knees and still walk upright, he was doing it.

Ehrlich swept an arm out at the prisoners, his voice strident. _"Durchsuchen ihnen wieder, alle von ihnen, um ihre Stiefel. Besonders der Feldwebel. Ich vertrauen, Sie können diese, gehorchen?"_

Saunders looked over at where Caje and Kalgren stood a few yards away and met the Cajun's eyes. The sergeant tossed his head slightly and raised his eyebrows. _You two okay?_ He asked silently.

Caje gave him an incredulous 'are you kidding me?' look. _Us?_ _Are __**you**__ okay?_

Saunders didn't answer, turning instead when the feldwebel bellowed at his men. They swarmed up to the Americans and Saunders spread his arms, waiting for the extensive search he'd suspected might come- Ehrlich had checked Philips for papers and come up empty.

They were again frisked roughly and then shoved to the ground. Saunders' concierge kicked rudely at his feet. "Take your boots off," he called to the others. "An' put 'em back on quick as they let you." He pulled his own off and watched while Hanley was flipped onto his back and similarly accosted.

After they and their wardrobe were all thoroughly checked, Saunders quickly pushed his feet back into his footwear, then moved carefully under the weapons pointed at him over to the lieutenant and roughly shoved his boots back on.

They _had_ to have their boots. Escape and evasion cross-country barefoot would be a nightmare. At least, he hoped that scenario might come up.

Ehrlich strolled up to him. "I can still divest you of that troublesome private, Sergeant."

Saunders looked wistfully at the few feet separating him and Ehrlich and considered just how quickly he could cross that space, and the damage he could do if he just had a few seconds.

"We'll carry him."

The captain smirked spitefully at him. "No, Sergeant,_ you_ will carry him. Do not slow us down."

Ehrlich canted his head thoughtfully. "I am eager to get back. You and I have many things to discuss." He looked at him for a long, disturbing moment, then turned and shouted at his troops.

Saunders sighed, relegating the implied threat to where he'd put all the rest—a place besides now. He had hoped to be allowed to have help with the lieutenant but hadn't really expected it. Getting up, Saunders reached down and tugged Hanley into a sitting position. He pulled him up and over and after a bit of maneuvering, had him balanced across his shoulders. He gave a little hop to settle the weight and straightened.

It had started to drizzle, and the sergeant looked past the Germans to where a thin fog had finally settled into the landscape in front of them, obscuring the path ahead. The promise of a storm to come.

It was true what he'd told Caje earlier; they would have interrogated him, regardless. He was just the only game in town now, so to speak. He had done what he needed to, what he'd had to, what he'd do again with no regrets. But as he stepped forward, he had to look ahead and plan for one simple truth.

He was in trouble.

* * *

Caje watched as Saunders picked up the lieutenant and the Cajun growled angrily, wanting to help. He could only hope for the Sarge's sake they didn't have far to go- Hanley had to weigh close to a couple hundred pounds. He heard the sergeant murmuring what he assumed were words of comfort and assurance to the unconscious officer, then he got closer and was able to pick up what the non-com was actually saying. LeMay lowered his head to hide a miniscule, private smile.

"…like carryin' a friggin' giraffe," Saunders was grousing quietly. "_Piece a' cake_. Still can't believe you said that out loud."


	6. Chapter 6

Hi everyone. I'm VERY sorry this took so long. I am so hopelessly, ridiculously overwhelmed right now, and it has nothing to do with the holidays.

Believe it or not, I rushed this out for Christmas, so I haven't picked over it like I normally would. Please forgive any mistakes.

Since some of you know I've been working on this story for like, forever, I should give a thirty-second explanation. I was originally just writing this for myself (thus the very high H/C content), and I did it in scattered, far-flung chunks. Most of this story is finished, I just need to fill in the gaps; some big, some small. I just don't want anyone to think I'm only goofing off, or that I don't care. Boy, do I care! I really am sorry for the wait.

Merry Christmas, belated Happy Hanukkah, and peace and safety to all of you, in the new year. God bless.

I hope you enjoy these two chapters.

* * *

_Caje watched as Saunders picked up the lieutenant and the Cajun growled angrily, wanting to help. He could only hope for the Sarge's sake they didn't have far to go- Hanley had to weigh close to a couple hundred pounds. He heard the sergeant murmuring what he assumed were words of comfort and assurance to the unconscious officer, then he got closer and was able to pick up what the non-com was actually saying. LeMay lowered his head to hide a miniscule, private smile._

_"…like carryin' a friggin' giraffe," Saunders was grousing quietly. "Piece a' cake. Still can't believe you said that out loud."_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Saunders kept his attention on the path ahead, occasionally sweeping the woods for landmarks. There was little tactical reason for it, but he knew better than to allow his mind to turn inward. He was far too disciplined to pay attention to the crippling fatigue, or the fact his legs were now bearing close to four hundred pounds of combined weight. If he did, even for a moment, it was all over.

He thought about the last time he'd had access to his canteen without guns pointed at him and sighed in despondent regret. _Make a note_, he thought_. Next time you're about to be captured, drain your canteen._ He almost chuckled out loud, in spite of himself. _Okay, then._ _You're losin' it, Saunders. _Thirst and exhaustion again started to clamor, and he again turned his focus out.

He scanned his men, all two of them, for what seemed the hundredth time. The privates' hands had been tied just before they'd set out, and Saunders gritted his teeth when Kalgren stumbled over a small gully, 'helped' across by a shove to his shoulder. Caje hopped nimbly over the trickle and turned to glare acidly at the Kraut reaching for him, and for no reason at all Saunders was absurdly reminded of a time he'd once watched the Cajun sleepwalk, unhindered through a crowded tent, in the dark.

They'd been walking for what seemed like days but probably wasn't more than half an hour when Kalgren drifted up alongside him. Saunders took a quick look at his face and tensed before the man even opened his mouth.

"Sarge, I'm—" He stumbled over something and quickly straightened. "I'm almost loose," Kalgren whispered, youthful excitement warring with the need for caution. "I've been working at the ropes and I think I'm loose!"

Saunders took a step away from the private and continued to trudge along quietly for a full minute, then lifted his head and scanned the area. He deliberately staggered slightly to the left, almost bumping into Kalgren. "No," he hissed through his teeth. "You don't have a chance, they're all around us."

"No, Sarge, listen! That fella over there keeps playin' with his boot," he whispered, jerking his head at the German just ahead and to their left. "If I can get away I'll bring back help!"

Saunders turned his head slightly. "I said no!" he snarled. "You won't make it."

Fate has its own ideas, though, and for good or bad little things like war and sergeants and well-meaning privates are just swept along. At that moment the Kraut Kalgren had pointed out stumbled and almost fell, and that was all it took.

Saunders bit back a reflexive bellow and watched in silent despair as Kalgren suddenly turned and charged, jerking his hands free. Lowering one shoulder, the big private steamrolled over the German directly behind the clumsy one, racing in a broken-field run up the slight incline that separated them from the dense forest.

The American sergeant braced himself against the impending chaos. He saw Caje shoved to the ground at the same time he himself felt the muzzle of a gun rammed hard into his back. He spread his feet and staggered. If he went down now, that was it. He'd never get them back up.

Saunders watched helplessly as the kid crested the hill at top speed, two or three of the more alert Krauts blasting away at him. If he could just get over… "Go, go, go," Saunders breathed.

To his credit, Kalgren made it farther than anyone thought he would. Just before he would have dropped out of sight he suddenly jerked, fell to the ground, and rolled over the gentle summit.

Two German soldiers ran after him while Ehrlich shouted. The officer stamped his feet, cold and impatient. _"Überprüfen Sie ihm und schnell, Idioten!"_

* * *

Korporal Eric Gerhardt rushed over the hill and crashed like a bull through a wall of overgrowth, before skidding to a hard stop. What had started out as a slight decline continued for less than three meters before dropping off into a steep, no-man's land of thick brambles, small trees, and an unknown quantity of air. The American was nowhere in sight. Gerhardt turned to speak to the man who had followed him up.

_"Es gibt keine Art, wie ich bin ..." _He paused, there was no one there. _Lazy coward,_ he thought to himself. It was just as well. He quickly pointed his Mauser down into the overgrown basin and pulled off two rapid shots. _Sorry, _mein Führer_. You want him, you go get him. _

Gerhardt struggled back up through the greenery and glared at where his useless platoon-mate was trying to look ferocious_. "Danke für nichts. Er ist tot."_

He reported as much to his captain as he took his place in the column. "_Er ist tot, mein Herr."_

Cold as he was and irritated at losing a prisoner, Ehrlich still couldn't resist the opportunity and took several steps toward Saunders. "I am sorry, my English is… rusty. How do you say…?" He gestured to where Kalgren had been hit. "Oh, yes. Good job," he gloated. "We only had a little distance to go."

* * *

After Kalgren went down and two rifle shots split the air, Saunders dropped his head and pulled in a quick, desperate breath. Without warning Hanley's weight was suddenly pressing him down, riding on the backs of sheer exhaustion and the tonnage of accumulated failure. If Caje had been on his feet Saunders would have grabbed onto him, but he wasn't.

His knees started to give way. _No, get up!_ he screamed at himself. He _could not_ lift Hanley again. Images flashed through his mind, of Ehrlich happily shooting the lieutenant in the head while he, Saunders, huddled in a useless pile. Within himself a persona he rarely used but had long possessed came forward—the drill sergeant.

_You get up right now, you miserable, useless bastard! STAND UP!_

Grinding his teeth viciously, Saunders wobbled a couple inches sideways before he halted the imminent fold and straightened marginally, ultimately driven not by the strident voices but by his own inherent, unyielding temerity. That, and the look he'd seen in Hanley's eyes, every single time he had given Saunders an order that sent other men off to die.

Then Ehrlich's mocking voice leaked through and raw hatred shored up the weak spots. Saunders hadn't heard a word he'd said and was quite certain he didn't care. Fighting to control his ragged breathing, he gazed at the Kraut with the same expression he'd have looking at a norway rat. "I'm… I'm sorry, Captain… did you say something?"

Ehrlich's smug countenance fell and his lips thinned into a pale, unpleasant line. "Get. Moving," he snarled. "Before I decide to just kill the lot of you."

Saunders knew he wasn't bluffing, not by a bit. The sergeant shrugged mentally and took a shaky step forward. _Like you're not planning to do that anyway._

He felt the instinctive, overwhelming need to look back, to look toward the place where yet another American serviceman lay dead and alone, but lowered his head instead and kept walking. He just couldn't spare the energy.

* * *

Kalgren rolled downhill for a couple seconds before that most primal of human nightmares happened: the ground disappeared from beneath him and he dropped into empty air. Things whipped at his face and body before he landed and rolled again, and he was aware of none of it. Every neuron in his brain was consumed by the white, molten fire licking at his side.

He finally crashed to a stop, snagged in vines and saplings, and he reached both hands to try and keep himself together because he was surely flying apart, littering the ground with little bits of himself as he writhed. He'd heard of this; men blasted to pieces, incurring wounds incompatible with life, yet still living. A cry of confusion and agony was crawling up his throat when sound suddenly started to leak back through the whiteness, and terror borne on instincts he could no longer understand bade him to be quiet.

There was rustling, then more rustling, then suddenly there were sounds so loud his body jerked painfully. _Don't!—_his breath caught on a ragged sob and he pushed his trembling knuckles against his teeth. _Don't make a sound._

Soon there was nothing to be heard but the wind, and he couldn't hold the horror back anymore and sobbed out loud. He calmed slightly when his groping hands discovered not the obscene, gaping wound he'd expected but a small, wet hole in his right side but, gosh, it hurt _so bad_. Germans. Germans had shot him.

He'd been _shot_. His thoughts were bogging down now and he looked around, confused. "Dad? They…" He chuffed out a disbelieving snort. "They got me, Daddy, I'm sorry. I know, I'm sorry," he said, before remembering his father wasn't here. Nobody was. He was in France, and he was alone. The pain roared back up, and he arched his back against it. He turned his wet eyes to the sky. It was the color of coal now, and the wrongness of a dark sky in the afternoon was like a punch to the gut. _No! I'm not…_

He watched as the trees' gray branches scraped against that black sky. "I'm not gonna die here," he shouted weakly at them. "I'm not… not here…" _Not here._ His failing mind turned inward, to the things he had already missed, and the things he would miss.

He could see it so clearly. They would have brought the corn in in October, and everyone had gathered at Uncle Roger's farm, as they had for decades. There was a huge bonfire, as always, and more fresh corn than anyone could eat and potatoes wrapped in foil and tossed right into the fire, with slabs of home-churned butter everywhere. If it had been a good year someone had lost a head of cattle to this, and all the younger cousins would have chased each other through the fields in the twilight; laughing, happy, and safe.

Kalgren smiled, even as the darkness leaked through the branches and reached for him. "Not dying, here," he slurred. It was nice, to not be hurting anymore. He sighed and closed his eyes.

* * *

The Cajun bided his time, stepping and sidling until he was walking alongside Saunders. He'd been painfully aware of the sergeant's distress earlier and wasn't sure how alert he'd been. He quietly called to him without lifting his head. "How ya doin', Sarge?" There was no answer and Caje waited, knowing he'd been heard.

When it came the non-com's voice was just as quiet. "What did he say earlier, Caje? Anything important?"

The scout nodded to himself, his suspicions confirmed. "He said we're almost there."

Saunders didn't say anything else and Caje sighed. He _needed_ to know the sergeant's status, for real, and reflected on how not-helpful the tough guy routine sometimes was. He couldn't throw stones; he did it himself, all the time.

Saunders readjusted his grip on the lieutenant and LeMay was sure he saw him tremble slightly. "Ya okay, Sarge?"

"Peachy."

Caje was considering how far to push it when he sensed a change around them. The pace had increased slightly, and men started muttering softly to each other. He was just opening his mouth to point it out to Saunders when they were marched from the trees into a large clearing.

"Sarge…" he hissed. The warning was unnecessary, like him the sergeant was carefully surveying the sparse layout. The sprawling, single-story house wasn't the typical farm dwelling they normally encountered, more of a lodge than anything else, but with the usual barn some ways away at the end of a well-worn path.

Caje was pushed from behind and obediently increased his pace, quickly moving up as close behind Saunders as he could, hoping to spare him the same treatment. It didn't help; they were both shoved roughly toward the barn. Ehrlich shouted at his men, and both Americans watched as almost half the remaining Krauts continued on past the house and into the woods.

Caje watched them go as he walked, a tiny flame of hope burning within him. Their numbers cut by half? He felt badly, not caring where they were going and whose problem they would be, as long as they weren't here. The flame diminished a little when he looked around at how many were left, and it died altogether thirty seconds later.

They were stopped in the yard before entering the barn, and Ehrlich looked down at them imperiously . Caje was sure the squeaky little bastard had stepped up on a rock or something. Saunders looked up at him, undaunted. "Captain, my men need water."

Ehrlich gazed at the sergeant, then made a show of surveying his domain before turning back to the American non-com. "Sergeant, what your men get—or do not get—is up to you." He turned and again shouted orders in that harsh language Caje hated so much, and the only thing LeMay understood was when Ehrlich pointed at Saunders and then at the house. The private's hands were jerked up painfully and the ropes cut, and they were shoved inside the barn.

Caje struggled to acclimate his vision to the dim light available. He watched as Saunders lowered the lieutenant down onto a small pile of old, smelly hay. The non-com turned to his second, obviously trying to squeeze what was probably two minutes of instruction into maybe twenty seconds. "If they bring you water and you can spare it, clean him up, okay?"

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You grab him and go if you have the chance, you hear me?" His tone softened even further, to a low growl. "Caje? You hear me?"

The private didn't bother pointing out the obvious - the lieutenant should wake soon, and then Caje wouldn't have a say in it. "Yeah, Sarge, I hear you."

Saunders turned to the gaggle of nazis that had escorted them in and pointed at Caje and Hanley. "_Wasser_. They need water."

Unsurprisingly, one grabbed for Saunders and shoved him toward the door. Caje couldn't help calling out to him. "Sarge…"

Saunders looked back at him, his calm, schooled expression as though he were going out to wait for a bus. "Take care of him, Caje."

Then he was gone.

LeMay sighed shakily, trying to push the fear and grief down to a point where he could function, and moved over to the lieutenant. He was a practical man, maybe sometimes to a fault, and set out to do as he was commanded. That didn't mean he didn't hate, though, and looked over at the two Krauts left to guard them with far more intent than practicality required.

* * *

Saunders mounted the steps to the front porch, noting everything he could, his escorts alongside him. There were lanterns hanging on either side, already burning. _That could be a problem…_

His biggest problem, though, called to him from where it lounged on the porch, having just lit up a confiscated American cigarette.

"I'm glad you're finally here, Sergeant." Ehrlich almost purred. "We are going to talk about many things."

_Oh, that old, tired refrain._

Even frightened as he was, Saunders barely held back a contemptuous snort. "I can tell already you're going to do most of the talking."

Ehrlich watched languidly as the American non-com was shoved into the house. He lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. He had plenty of time, now. He smiled. "We'll see."

* * *

_Sorry about the sleep-walking thing, I had to throw it in, LOL. I once watched my brother do this, under even more unbelievable conditions than portrayed here, and it's bothered me ever since. Therapy, I guess. Sorry :-)_


	7. Chapter 7

Okay. I think we can all see where this is headed. Warnings in this chapter for torture, nothing too graphic but it's not rainbows and fluffy kittens, either. :-)

* * *

_"I'm glad you're finally here, Sergeant." Ehrlich almost purred. "We are going to talk about many things."_

_Oh, that old, tired refrain._

_Even frightened as he was, Saunders barely held back a contemptuous snort. "I can tell already you're going to do most of the talking."_

_Ehrlich watched languidly as the American non-com was shoved into the house. He lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. He had plenty of time, now. He smiled. "We'll see."_

**Chapter Seven**

Second Lieutenant Gil Hanley moaned; the low, sickening sound of a man wishing he were dead. For what seemed like days but in all likelihood had only been a few hours he'd been unconscious, but for much of that time he'd been miserably aware of the blinding pain in his head. It felt like it had been split open. He'd experienced something similar before, unfortunately familiar with both of the possible causes: the broken, spinning limbo of concussion or the sick, fractured sleep of an extreme hangover.

When he opened his eyes the world was swirling lazily around him, and nausea made his mouth water. Suddenly it felt like he'd swallowed a blanket and it was only halfway down. He gagged and choked, then all at once he became aware of a quiet voice and a metal pail and he was desperately sick. A hand stroked his back between his shoulder blades and he grounded himself on it. The voice went on as if it knew how badly he needed it; the warm, familiar accent promising some level of stability as the room eased its slow spin and settled.

Then the whispered, hurried tone from the blurry form next to him leaked through and despite himself, instincts honed over nine months and a hundred years kicked in and his focus sharpened.

"Lieutenant? I know it's hard to think right now, but listen carefully. We've been captured. They don't know you are an officer. They think you're a private. There are guards, only a few yards away. _Compris_? It's important they think you're a private. Lieutenant?"

Hanley nodded his understanding, before he understood anything. The last thing he remembered was standing over a map with Captain Jampel…

"Caje?"

"_Oui_… yes," the private whispered, relieved. "Did you understand what I said? They cannot know, now…" He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was even lower, and rough. "It is the S.S."

Listening to the cadence of the man's voice, Hanley was suddenly wide awake. He looked quickly around the barn and felt the cold prickle of dread at the back of his neck as the clues fell into place, along with his limited memory.

Despite the fact it was his second language, Caje normally spoke perfect English. When he was exhausted or badly stressed, however, Hanley knew his accent thickened drastically.

Like now.

The lieutenant tilted his head back and stared at the Cajun. The shadows in the barn played over the man's dark, Gallic features, and anguish, rage, and something frightening flickered there.

"Caje." Hanley said tightly. "What happened? Where's Saunders?"

* * *

Sergeant Chip Saunders moved through the darkness, his destination the doorway of the building on the dirty, wet street, the only one with light spilling from inside. For a moment pain and fear threatened to overcome him, then voices could be heard and his heart lifted at the light, happy squabbling. His squad. He sighed in relief and stepped inside.

"You gotta be kiddin' me, Caje. You? You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if you was standin' inside it!" Kirby almost spilled his beer turning unsteadily to the new arrival and his face lit up. "Sarge! I'm glad you're here! Sarge, tell Caje who's the best shot, huh? He's too entoximated to figger it out hisself."

They all turned to him, their voices reaching out in surprise and pleasure and they surrounded him, laughing and slapping him on the back, and warmth flowed through him as a bunker formed around him.

Terrible pain battered at him but he pushed it away. He cared about these men, protected them as best he could, and he knew they cared about and protected him. In the most secure part of his mind, he acknowledged that he loved them. He looked at them all, and he loved them. He was close to his brothers in a way they'd never be, and yet at the same time he was close to these men in a way his brothers couldn't ever be.

Kirby shuffled up and drunkenly threw his arm over Saunders' shoulders, similar to the hold he had used when he'd dragged the non-com off that _forsaken_ hill under machine-gun fire, after Saunders had been hit in the leg. The rifleman pointed at the bottle sitting on the bar in front of his sergeant. "You gonna drink that?" Saunders smiled indulgently, slid the bottle over, and returned to the important thoughts his mind was occupying itself with.

Under these conditions he knew a man better after a week than he could know him in ten years in peacetime. Sure, he'd had buddies back in Cleveland. Hop in the car for a fast, loud trip to Chicago to drink and tear up the town and what did he learn about them? Pinky cheated at cards and don't let Jonesy meet your girl and would they kill when they had to and would they freeze and would they care enough when he was pinned down and mortar was coming down like snow?

He'd _bled_ with these men. Cried in front of them, slept up against them when there was no heat and shared cigarettes when there was no food. It was stark and bittersweet to know that for the rest of his life he would probably never know times as bad as these, and in some ways he would never have more than he did right now.

Caje, Kirby, Littlejohn, Doc, Billy, and Hanley.

_Hanley_. A good officer. A good and valiant man, and probably his closest friend.

His other brothers.

Saunders suddenly cried out and almost went to his knees. Caje quickly reached over and grasped his upper arm, leaning into him. "It's pretty bad, huh Sarge?"

"Can't ya just tell 'em somethin', Sarge? Just make somethin' up, ya know?" Kirby put in, his eyes dark and sad.

Billy crowded in, his youthful face earnest. "Can't you just stay here, Sarge? Stay here with us."

_I'm tryin', Billy! _Saunders shut his eyes and started to fold in on himself. Biting back a strangled moan, he reflexively reached out in his agony like a drowning man and felt almost a dozen arms grab and hold him_-_the support of men who had no equal. Then the pain just became too much and the faces around him grayed and unraveled, and he was alone in the dark again.

* * *

Hauptmann Wolfgang Ehrlich paused to catch his breath and clenched his teeth, furious. Being ignored enraged him even more than being defied. He buried a bruised hand in the thick, blond hair and yanked the American's head back viciously, almost breaking the man's neck. The sergeant gasped and choked out an almost startled cry. Ehrlich grinned, happy for any reaction after all that stoic silence.

"I am not sure where you went just now, Sergeant, but I was feeling a bit lonely. I thought maybe you forgot about us." With his hand still immersed in Saunders' hair, Ehrlich pulled his head back even further and the sergeant arched his back and bit off a moan, the ropes that bound him to the chair grinding into his wrists. Saunders coughed and started to gag as blood from what felt like a broken nose ran down his throat, and his tormenter grunted and let go of his hair, slapping his head forward. "Vomit on me and you'll die now," he snarled.

Ehrlich grabbed him with one hand below his chin and jerked his head up from where it had dropped against his chest and leaned in close, depraved insanity glittering in his eyes. "What were you doing in this area, Sergeant?" He didn't wait for an answer before he struck him again with a closed fist, on the already damaged right side of his face.

"There was an officer with you, and strangely, he had no documents at all on him." He slapped him hard, just to keep his attention. The sergeant had a talent for removing himself from the game, and Ehrlich didn't want that.

"Since I am fairly sure he did not hide these papers after he was shot through his left eye, I have reason to believe you destroyed them."

Saunders slurred an incomprehensible reply, and Ehrlich sighed, knowing full well what he probably said.

"I couldn't make that out, Sergeant. Since I know you have split your lip somehow, quite badly, I will be patient. Take your time." Ehrlich rested his hand on Saunders' back in a sickening mockery of concern, and the sergeant bucked his shoulders violently, as though shaking off a large spider. The captain laughed, and slapped the back of his head again. "Sergeant?"

It was a struggle to lift his head, but finally Saunders managed to lean it back and tried to focus on Ehrlich out of his good left eye. The room whirled nauseatingly, and he knew if he could get his right eye open his vision would probably double and triple from the severe concussion he was sure he had to have. That eye was swollen shut in the bloody mess that was the right side of his face—Ehrlich was left-handed. The other side wasn't much better.

Saunders rolled his head to the side and spat blood onto the floor, more for the personal imperative of not puking in front of his enemy than out of defiance. He swallowed dryly and finally scraped the words out.

"S…Saunders… Sergeant. Two-two… seven-zero… six-two-two."


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, here I am, finally. I'm going to try and update quickly after these two chapters, within the next couple days.

Thank you to my reviewers! If ever I needed encouragement, it's been with this.

* * *

_Saunders rolled his head to the side and spat blood onto the floor, more for the personal imperative of not puking in front of his enemy than out of defiance. He swallowed dryly and finally scraped the words out._

_"S…Saunders… Sergeant. Two-two… seven-zero… six-two-two."_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"He did _what_?!"

Lieutenant Hanley squeezed an angry bellow into a quiet, frightening snarl and Paul LeMay—a man as fearless as they came—couldn't help but step back before the cold fury.

On some level just about everyone feared Saunders- even to the veterans he was occasionally just short of terrifying. To either side, he could be and was many things: leader, follower, capable killer. The boogyman. But Gil Hanley was known as a man to be feared and respected in his own right, for reasons beyond the food chain.

"I asked you a question, Soldier!" Hanley hissed.

"You were out, Lieutenant! He didn't want them to get their hands on… on an officer. He took off your insignia and put it on Philips. Philips was dead, it didn't—"

"I get that! What did he think they would do then?!" Furious, Hanley whirled, staggered, then stalked through the gloom over to the barn's wall and paced along it. Uncaring of the muzzles now tracking him, he fought desperately to organize critically needed thoughts out of the blinding pain in his head and the grinding fear in his heart. He turned and strode back to his private, gesturing angrily to make up for the yelling he had to suppress.

"What was he thinking?" he whispered through clenched teeth. "That they don't torture non-coms? They do! They will!" _They are, _he almost said.

Caje was already drowning in anguish and he suddenly pushed up close to Hanley, his head down and alongside the lieutenant's ear. "Do you really think he didn't know that, sir?" he choked out, and Hanley's shoulders sagged.

Cold drafts that smelled like cold forest swirled weakly around them while Caje stayed where he was and just breathed for a moment. He turned away slightly and lowered his head even further. "I said the same thing to him," he whispered shamefully, as if to himself. "I was… afraid for him and I said the same thing but he said you were already hurt…"

Hanley closed his eyes and dropped his head.

He felt no slight; his sorrow was only for his sergeant. To Hanley the Cajun was loyal and dedicated, always had been, but for Saunders he'd fight off the Reaper with a spoon. The lieutenant expected nothing less. If a man could fight alongside Saunders every miserable, stinking day since Omaha Beach and not have allegiance to him first, then Hanley had no use for him.

Caje took a step back and met his eyes now, completely sincere. "He was right, Lieutenant," he whispered, still mindful of the guards. "We all know we might get worked over if we're caught, but it's worse for officers. You know that. And like he said, they would have gone after him anyway. That's all he was thinking."

And thus they both danced around the elephant in the room.

_And you're his friend._

Hanley pulled in a breath like he hadn't breathed in hours. "How long… how long has he been gone?"

The private looked away into the dark, his own breath streaming out like wet, cold smoke, before turning back to gaze steadily at Hanley. "I'm not sure, sir. Maybe three, four hours."

"Four hours…"

Caje watched as Hanley turned and looked toward the barn door and knew he was staring through it, through the guards, and into whatever awful things might be happening in the house. He'd always thought the lieutenant had the most expressive face of anyone he'd ever met, and he easily interpreted every thought and emotion as it flowed over that face and through the intensely focused green eyes.

He saw grief and an almost overwhelming guilt there now, and when Hanley took two unconscious steps toward the door, the Cajun stepped forward. "Sir, you can't…"

Hanley jerked around and almost shouted at him. "I know!" He whimpered miserably and reached both hands up to his head, as though to keep the exploding pieces all in one place. After a long moment he swallowed thickly and lowered his voice. "I know."

They both knew that if the S.S. captain found out now that Saunders had fooled him so easily, he'd kill him, for embarrassing him if nothing else. And he'd have no further use for him—a non-com who was almost surely injured by now.

Caje could also see the cost of this playing out on his CO's face. He knew Hanley to be a courageous and honorable man; a leader worthy of following. Not a man to let anybody take _his_ place, _his_ torment. Least of all a soldier he was responsible for, made all the worse that it was a close friend.

Hanley took a deep breath and sighed it out through his teeth. He scanned the barn again and then the guards, noting weapons, demeanor, location… everything. His natural instincts were starting to climb atop the angst to pull back and assess his surroundings, and the situation as a whole. "Caje." Hanley turned back toward his private, and the look in his eyes reminded the Cajun of why Saunders would probably follow this man off a cliff, with Caje himself right behind him.

"I need to know what happened," the officer said evenly. "Tell me everything."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I own nothing of Louis L'Amour's works and have no permission to sample them here. Please don't sue me. The most you could hope to get is a twenty-three year old Corolla and several cats, and I'll fight to the death for the cats. ;-) Honestly though, I loved the novel and this quote has always meant a lot to me. I only pay it homage, now.

Fear not! There is action ahead, especially now that our favorite officer is getting back in the game. For now, though, things are gonna get worse for my beloved sergeant.

**Warnings:** This chapter gets kind of serious. Continued warnings for torture, though most of it is implied or offscreen.

As I cautioned at the outset, the second half of this story is awash in H/C. Sometime within the next couple of chapters it will be thick enough to cut with a bayonet, but really, I think whoever's still reading has seen that coming (I never said I wasn't predictable, LOL). I will give you a heads-up, along with an option to skip past the worst of it to the next chapter, posted at the same time.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_How much can a man endure? How long could a man continue? These things I asked myself, for I am a questioning man, yet even as I asked the answers were there before me. If he be a man indeed, he must always go on, he must always endure. Death is an end to torture, to struggle, to suffering, but it is also an end to warmth, light, the beauty of a running horse, the smell of damp leaves, of gunpowder, the walk of a woman when she knows someone watches…these things too are gone._

_From 'Galloway'_

_By Louis L'Amour_

* * *

Hauptmann Ehrlich dropped exhausted into a chair and flexed his bruised knuckles. He rubbed them absently and wondered if the Führer would ever know just how hard he worked for the cause. He looked up at the unconscious man being roughly manhandled by his men and posed the question to him.

"What do you think, Sergeant? Do you think he realizes how much I sacrifice? The unpleasant lengths I must go to?"

He watched as Feldwebel Schröder and his drones carried out his instructions, cutting the ropes binding Saunders to the chair and lifting him enough to resecure him with more rope, tossed over the timbers running lengthwise along the ceiling and tied tightly to each wrist. Ehrlich laughed quietly to himself as he thought of whoever had built this lodge with such painstaking quality and love, and decided they probably hadn't had this use in mind.

As was his wont, Ehrlich's mood turned on a dime and he leapt to his feet and strode up to the American. He raised Saunders' head by his hair and stared into the bloody face. "There you are, my little, brave GI." He canted his head to the side and thought for a second. "You must be thirsty by now." He let go and turned to snap his fingers at Schröder.

_"Holen Sie sich etwas Wasser für unsere durstigen Feldwebel. Ihn aufwecken!"_

Schröder grinned and snatched up one of two large buckets he'd already prepared, and threw the water into the soldier's face.

* * *

Sergeant Chip Saunders felt himself being jerked from one world filled with suffering and into another, and he moaned softly.

The common belief was that when you were really out, there wasn't any pain. He knew from bitter experience that that wasn't always the case. Sometimes, being asleep or unconscious and in pain was like being trapped in a small, pitch-black room with a vicious animal. There was nowhere to go, and no other stimulus but pain.

Opening his eye to the nightmare around him now, though, made him wish he could crawl back into that darkness. Ehrlich's face leered before him, and a solid wall of unfettered agony slammed into him and he whimpered quietly before he could stop himself.

For reasons he didn't want to contemplate, he'd been raised to a standing position and every ounce of his weight cut into his mutilated wrists, and his shoulders felt like they'd already been dislocated. The pain in his head had a scary, sick feeling to it, like something was broken loose deep inside, but it was his ribs that washed everything else away in a white-hot fire.

He'd been injured many times; as an athlete and a young man growing up on the streets of the inner-city, and as a frontline squad leader he had so many Purple Hearts the Brass must think he was either Sergeant York or the clumsiest man ever born.

These experiences had led him to believe there was nothing worse than broken ribs. With almost anything else, you had the option of just not moving and waiting for the pain to subside. With damaged ribs, obviously that wasn't possible. With every breath that heaved his chest, he could feel the jagged edges of broken bone grating together.

He closed his eye and fought to gather himself. _Don't cry out. Don't whimper. Don't say PLEASE, for any reason. _Unbidden, a memory came to him that had played itself out in his dreams: Private Harold Gates, crawling up to Steiner on his hands and knees, for a drink of water.

_Get up, Gates. Gates… stand up._

From out of the darkness someone slapped him, but at this point he barely registered it.

He missed his jacket. He was very cold, especially now that he was wet. He tried hard not to shiver; shivering with broken bones was a special kind of agony he was already aquainted with, and the inevitability of it was torment in itself.

And he was afraid. He was afraid and hurt and tired and his need for water had been pushed beyond his endurance, about half a day ago.

_Get up, Saunders. Saunders… stand up._

Throughout all this the notion of giving in, of giving up Hanley or what little tactical information he himself possessed, never occurred to him. Not even as that kind of stray thought you bring out and look at and play with, when you already know you have no intention of acting on it. Not at all.

He moaned again, quietly. The strain on his wrists and shoulders had reached a point he could no longer tolerate and he struggled to stand up; a directive his body couldn't obey. He had reached that heartbreaking threshhold: the moment when an unbreakable will was betrayed by simple physiology. His legs wouldn't hold him and the failed effort tugged at his upper body unbearably.

* * *

Hauptmann Ehrlich stood in front of his stubborn plaything and watched the struggle of mind and body. He wanted the man's attention and was considering the best way to get it when Saunders tried to stand and groaned when he failed. Ehrlich smiled at the sound.

"Good to know you're with us, Sergeant. I wanted to show you something," he gloated, like a kid with a train set. When Saunders showed no curiosity, he went on. "I feel our time together is drawing to a close, and I wanted to get this last part over with so I can send you back with your men, and you can rest."

When Saunders didn't respond to the cruel, false offer of hope either, Ehrlich shot out a hand to again grab his hair and jerk his head up. "Look at me when I speak to you, _Hund_!"

Saunders finally opened his good eye and Ehrlich gave his head one more shake and let go. "You _will_ pay attention or I will drag one of those pitiful creatures out of the barn and put a bullet in his head right now!"

Saunders fought hard now to keep his head up and his eye open. As awful as this was, it could be that much worse. Early on he'd expected that very thing: Hanley or Caje or both brought in and used against him. He'd been terrified at the prospect, and surprised when it didn't happen. He supposed he had to be grateful that Ehrlich was a physical sadist and not into the higher-level psychological torture, at least not so far. It didn't hurt that the man was absolutely barking mad, to the point he probably couldn't even consider there might be a more effective way.

Ehrlich smiled again, pleased at the obedience. "As I was saying, Sergeant, I wanted to show you this." He held something in front of the American, and the smile widened. Saunders stared at the dark object but his vision was hopelessly blurred, and he'd been dizzy from the head injuries for several hours now. Ehrlich himself was just a fuzzy shape that slid nauseatingly across his field of vision, from left to right, over and over again.

Ehrlich frowned at the lack of comprehension, then realized the problem. "I understand in your country, these are used for guiding farm animals. I wonder if anyone, in all of France or Germany, is using them for such." He laughed. "It seems like a waste of a good whip." He shook it out, the coils dropping noisily, and watched as Saunders automatically tracked the sound to the floor, before raising his head to look in the German's direction.

Ehrlich looked eagerly into that single bloodshot, blue eye. For one moment, something flickered there too quickly to identify. Then the gaze hardened and Ehrlich could read it all. He could see the barriers and everything not behind them: anger, hatred, and a defiance so raw, so intense, it was like another person in the room with them.

It took the American two tries before he could speak, and when he did his voice was rough with extreme thirst. "But… you'll… you'll shh-shut up, now… right?" the blond slurred insolently. "Jus'… jus' the… whip, okay?"

Saunders grunted as Ehrlich suddenly dropped the whip and slammed into him, bunching his hands into the sergeant's shirt and jerking him upright. He could hear the German sputtering and trying to speak past his fury, and Saunders smirked blindly at him, busted lip and all. He chuffed weakly, half sob and half chuckle. "An' I… I gotta… tell ya, K-kraut …" He paused, panting hoarsely, and shook his head slightly. "You like… tou-touching my… h-hair… way too much."

Ehrlich made a sound like a gurgling shriek and wrapped his hands around Saunders' throat, squeezing with the strength of the demented. Saunders choked and jerked reflexively at his bound hands, struggling to defend himself.

Despite his reckless words, he hadn't been trying to goad Ehrlich into a quicker demise; his survival instinct was far too powerful for that. He'd just been so angry, so tired of the posturing of a weak-minded madman.

But it was that need to survive that drove him now, almost powerless and in his last seconds. In his rage Ehrlich was supporting most of the sergeant's weight, and Saunders was able to lift one knee in a feeble but well-aimed strike at Ehrlich's groin. It probably wouldn't save his life, but as his vision grayed and the light started to go out, his fading thought was that he hoped it hurt.

Ehrlich was gnashing his teeth and lost in a haze of fury when he felt Saunders shift and the fog cleared in a hurry. Gifted with quick reflexes, he twisted at the last moment and took the blow on his hip. It wasn't forceful enough to really hurt him there, but if he hadn't moved he'd have been on the floor in a fetal position.

He let go of Saunders' throat and shoved him. "_Sie wie es rau, Liebchen_?" he panted. "Okay." He spun and picked up the whip, turning back to where Saunders was struggling to recover his equilibrium, and smacked him clumsily alongside the head with it. "Okay."

He clenched the whip and whirled, then stopped and muttered unhappily under his breath. He turned back and grabbed Saunders under the chin and lifted his head.

"What were you doing in this area, Sergeant?" Saunders probably wasn't even close to full consciousness yet, and Ehrlich bared his teeth and tightened his grip. "Why are the Allies so interested in this area, Sergeant?" The non-com opened his one working eye, which promptly rolled back.

Ehrlich heaved a sigh. Well, his duty was done. He had tried. He could move on to recreation, now. He strode to a spot behind the American sergeant and again shook the whip out.

"_Hauptmann_?" A voice quivered.

Ehrlich looked over at his corporal and hissed dangerously. "Yesss? _Ich bin beschäftigt!"_

Saunders turned his head ever so slightly, peering through the hair hanging over his eyes, and watched the scared Kraut hold a shaking hand to his ear in the universal sign for 'telephone'. Ehrlich snarled, threw down the whip and stalked off toward his field radio, shouting in German.

Still panting from the near-strangulation, Saunders dropped his head.

_He has a whip_. He closed his eye and briefly prayed. _They're gonna whip me. God, help me._

His eye opened for a second, then drifted closed again and he breathed out, slowly. _Let go_. In a response learned long ago, he clamped down on his emotions and focused completely on his breathing. No thought. No fear. No pain. Just inhale, exhale. Even painful and damaged, the process was soothing. Inhale. Exhale. _Let. Go_.

He slipped in behind his barriers, and in a strange way the three minutes and thirty-five seconds he had before the next onslaught became a lifetime. He was in the shelter of his own mind now and it stretched out, vast and limitless. He was in control here, always had been, and that was all he needed to know. Really, it was all he'd ever needed.

The sheer force of his will expanded out, then pulled in, tightened, and solidified. Outside factions would come at him and break against it like waves on a rocky beach. Ultimately they could break his body and he was sure they would, but his mind and his will was beyond their reach, belonging only to him and God and nobody else.

That didn't mean he wasn't afraid, though. He already hurt so badly it was simply inconceivable that it could get worse, and terror gnawed at him, soft but relentless, like rats on a corpse. Desperate and scared, he reached out to the people in his head, in his heart. Chip Saunders never, _ever_ bestowed his trust or his friendship lightly, and he didn't now. With only seconds before the lash fell, he reached out to his brothers, again.

And his brothers kept him.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm very grateful to everyone that reviewed for chapter nine. Nana, that was so nice, and badly needed. I was already starting to chicken out, and had pretty much decided to bail after I thought I'd lost everyone at Chap nine, especially after I initially failed to post a warning for that, the most violent of all the chapters. BTW, thank you Littlesis, my most faithful, for pointing that out in a hurry.

That's not the only reason this update is so late, though. I'm just so busy I'm behind on everything, and I'm having some medical stuff going on.

To that end, I apologize to everyone. To Sister Mary Juli I also say with honest respect: I really am sorry and I'm so grateful you're into this story, but I will also point out, that means 21 days before you reviewed and that was only because you were annoyed. As I've said, I don't really deserve them, but it does help to know someone's still there, at least once in a while.

Especially after a mishandled chapter in what I consider to be a controversial fic, anyway. –sad lol- Sorry… Okay, warnings for Angst, H/C, and any torture now is strictly implied. That's _almost_ over with, anyhow. Here we go…

* * *

_That didn't mean he wasn't afraid, though. He already hurt so badly it was simply inconceivable that it could get worse, and terror gnawed at him, soft but relentless, like rats on a corpse. Desperate and scared, he reached out to the people in his head, in his heart. Chip Saunders never, ever bestowed his trust or his friendship lightly, and he didn't now. With only seconds before the lash fell, he reached out to his brothers, again._

_And his brothers kept him._

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Hanley paced past Caje again. Caje tensed as the officer glared at him and muttered under his breath. "Where is he?"

The Cajun had watched with trepidation as the lieutenant's guilt and fear had gradually dropped by the wayside until only fury remained. Caje felt it too, but the one time he'd started to stand up a few minutes ago had almost gotten the both of them shot. Apparently one American on his feet was a nuisance; two of them standing constituted insurrection. The guards were nervous, and Hanley wasn't helping.

The lieutenant paused long enough in his circuit to suddenly launch an angry kick at the pail he'd puked into earlier. "WHERE IS HE?!"

He turned to the guards and threw a hand out to encompass Caje and himself. "Where is our sergeant?!"

"Lieutenant…" Caje hissed quietly. He took a second to work up his courage. "Hanley." It was surprising how difficult it was to step over the lines of ingrained military courtesy. He raised his voice. "Hanley." The officer sent a withering glare in the private's direction. Caje waited.

Hanley sighed and lowered his head, working his jaw for a second. He walked over and settled himself into a crouch in front of the Cajun. When the lieutenant raised his head and canted it, Caje was surprised to see the tiniest shreds of apology and grim humor. "Yes, Private First Class LeMay?"

"Sir, I know you're upset, but a big guy like you stomping around in here? They're going to shoot you."

"I know." Hanley lowered his head again and rubbed at his eyes, trying to ease the relentless pounding. It was nice of Caje to not point out the obvious: the guards were ready to shoot them both. He shook his head slightly. He normally had better control than this. Reaching up a hand to rub at the back of his neck, Hanley sighed again and lifted his head, looking deeply into where the darkness gathered in one corner of the old barn. "It's been so long. This is insane, even for the S.S. I'm surprised they haven't grabbed one of us to… to make…" He shook his head again. "Insane."

Caje didn't say anything and Hanley glanced over at him. The Cajun was studying the guards and turned back to his lieutenant after a few seconds. Hanley paused, momentarily fascinated by the eclectic mix of patience, dread, and unholy menace briefly visible on the man's face.

"We'll get him back, Lieutenant," Caje whispered. "He's gonna need us…" One corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Alive would be good."

Hanley snorted and dragged in a deep breath. This was why Caje made such a good second for Saunders—they were two of a kind.

At that moment, there was a knock at the side door and a muffled voice called out in German. The door opened and another Kraut stepped in. The guards stepped up to him and the shorter one spoke to him in quick, low tones, gesturing at Hanley and Caje.

"That's him, Lieutenant, the Kraut sergeant." Caje whispered hurriedly. "He's Ehrlich's second, but like I said earlier, I personally think Ehrlich was gonna drop him back there. Sarge thought so, too, I'm sure of it."

Hanley rose to his full height and took a step forward, glaring at the German NCO. "Where is our sergeant?" he said coldly.

The Kraut's eyes narrowed in disgust and hate. He gestured angrily at the floor. "_Sie sitzen_, _Hund!"_

Hanley stepped back exactly four inches and pointed at the door. "Bring us our feldwebel!"

The German lifted his weapon and centered it on Hanley's chest, almost trembling with intent.

_"Sitzen. Jetzt."_

The lieutenant knew it was only the Kraut sergeant's close call with Ehrlich earlier that was staying his hand, now. Hanley sat down near Caje, never breaking eye contact. "Bringen zie our feldwebel," he bit off.

Caje watched the exchange, his muscles tensed and ready for a running leap at any one of the three of them, or Hanley. If one of these knuckle-draggers decided to open up, he wasn't going to just sit and wait for it. At that point he'd have nothing to lose.

In a less dire setting, he might have been amused. Hanley had an slight inclination for other languages - better than some, anyhow. Caje had been with him a long time and knew he did a little better with the French, and while the nuances of German pronunciation apparently continued to escape him, he got his point across.

The Kraut sergeant looked briefly over his shoulder in the direction of the house, then back to the prisoners and smiled wickedly. _"Ihr Feldwebel besetzt ist."_

He stepped toward his men then and growled at them, slapping angrily at the taller one who was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes, which flew everywhere. The sergeant bent and picked several of them up, and put one in his mouth.

"_Nicht rauchen! Und lassen Sie sie nicht herum wandeln, Idioten!"_ He swept his gaze over the prisoners again, stopping to sneer at Hanley. "_Wenn es nach mir ginge, würden Sie in den Wald jetzt verrotten."_ He lit the cigarette and stormed out the door.

The Americans sat in silence for several seconds. Hanley looked at Caje, and LeMay could see the same gut-wrenching anguish he felt himself written on the lieutenant's face. Unusual for him, the Cajun felt the need to say something, anything to fill in the graveside silence. He shrugged weakly. "Your accent is getting better."

Hanley didn't say anything, turning instead to stare at the door again. Caje himself settled his gaze on the guards.

_You're mine_, he thought.

* * *

Saunders groaned and hid his face in the dirt he knelt in, feeling the coldness of it wedge itself under his nails as his fingers dug in and curled. He jerked miserably when a gentle hand grasped his shoulder. "Sarge?" a quiet voice asked. "Sarge, it's okay, it's just me. I've got ya now, it's okay."

The terrible pain had little chance against the soothing, confident tones of his medic and abated slightly. Doc knelt beside him, continuing to murmur to him and tears stung Saunders' eyes.

He'd been blessed with a good squad, some of the best soldiers he'd ever seen, and he'd give his life for any one of them without the slightest hesitation. They were _his_. But there was that in him that held Doc and the men like him at another level.

He fought down the need to whimper, bending the entire force of his will to just hanging on to the gentleness in that voice; tenderness in the midst of savagery. "It's gonna be okay, Sarge. Don't you pay no mind to that other stuff…"

It was so hard to kill a man, to end something that could never be replaced, but it had to be done and Saunders and tens of thousands like him did it. It was done and they moved on, to claim whatever measly scrap of ground had to be claimed. But it was the medics that came in with them and after them that dealt with the unspeakable horrors left behind.

"…I've gotcha, Sarge…"

The vast majority of them were unarmed and ultimately viewed only one of two ways: saviors or easy targets. To Saunders they were the real warriors, the bravest of the brave, and there was _nothing_ he wouldn't do to protect any one of the good ones.

Especially his own.

Doc rested a gentle hand on the back of Saunders' bowed head and they stayed that way, in a quiet tableau of stolen peace, for an unmeasured sliver of time.

Saunders then moaned softly and shuddered, and Doc moved to again squeeze the sergeant's shoulder. "You made it, Sarge," he said reassuringly. "You're safe, here."

Saunders dragged his head up and surveyed his surroundings. Dappled sunlight fell across a well-worn path, which led through a freshly-mowed yard up to a set of weather-beaten steps and a tidy, wood-frame house. A set of girls' roller-skates sat haphazardly to the right of the half-open screen door. "Oh… no… not here," he groaned. He dropped his head back into the dirt. "Please… not here…" he begged.

"Sarge, you don't understand, you made it. You're _home_."

"No," Saunders croaked desperately.

"Sarge…" Doc said, stepping back and throwing one arm out to the side helplessly. "Sarge, you… we're just figments of your own mind! _You_ brought us here!"

"That's because he needs to be here." Saunders heard the deep baritone of his lieutenant before he felt the warm hand on his shoulder.

"Then he should go inside—" Doc began, pointing toward the house.

Hanley interrupted so Saunders didn't have to. "He's not going to do that to them. Real or not, he's not going to expose them to this."

"They're beatin' on him, with a_ whip_!" Doc shouted furiously. "He needs any bit of shelter he kin get!" Saunders could hear the outrage, could almost feel the angry heat rolling off him. "That's why he came here in the first place, 'cause he—"

"…needs to be here. But he doesn't _want_ to be here, and that's all that counts." Hanley shifted the hand on Saunders' shoulder just enough to lift his face out of the dirt before turning him over to Littlejohn. The big man hunched like an accordion alongside Saunders and, true to his gentle nature, carefully held him up, even as waves of excruciating pain tried to curl the sergeant back into a ball.

Hanley folded his long frame to the ground nearby and regarded him solemnly. "That's why you never speak of home, never talk about your family. You don't want to bring them into this." His voice was soft with understanding and he smiled sadly. "Even thinking about them taints them with it, doesn't it? It drags them right into the mud with you."

Saunders leaned back in Littlejohn's hold and closed his eyes against the vision of the home he was born in, against the yard he played in, against the hope he needed so badly. Tears of agony and longing burned at his eyes. His nostrils flared and he shook his head slightly. "I'll never do that to them."

After a very long moment, an irreverant voice broke the heavy silence.

"Yeah, I get it," Kirby piped up. "It's kinda like tryin' ta open a jar of pickles in a toilet, see? I mean, sure, you can get a pickle out, but what gets in while ya got the lid off?"

Even Saunders opened his eyes to join the others as they stared silently at Kirby.

Caje blew smoke out his nose while grinding a cigarette butt into the dirt with his boot. "It frightens me how much I understood that."

"Hey!"

Billy shrugged. "Makes sense to me."

Littlejohn shook his head at him. "It would."

As if sensing something, they all reluctantly turned to look at the house. A warm breeze ruffled their hair, bringing the mingled scents of fried chicken, peach pie, and Lizzie Saunders' prize-winning roses. The sound of indistinct voices and interior doors closing floated on the air.

Saunders folded in on himself with a quiet sob, the protective measures of his own mind coming closer to breaking him than anyone else had so far, with this unintentional cruelty.

"Aww, Sarge." Kirby said, the open compassion and sadness in his voice belying his reputation. "Maybe Doc's right—"

"NO!" Saunders shouted hoarsely. "I'll die before I let them see this! Before I let this… see them." He shook his head, his hold on this reality weakening by the second. "I'll… die first…"

Hanley leaned in and tilted his head slightly, trying to see the sergeant's face. "What about that other place?" he asked softly. "You remember, a few weeks ago? You and I sat by that stream and ate your mother's cookies." Saunders could actually hear the warm smile in his voice. "That was a nice place. Let's go there. I know how you like the water, and that brook was so peaceful."

Saunders fought with everything he had now just to keep the monsters at bay. He couldn't hold out here, anymore. The pain was just too much. With every beat of his stressed heart, the fabricated world around him dissolved at the edges. He shook his head. "I don't think I can."

"Well, sure you can. This is your field, your rules." He reached for Saunders' arm to help him up. "Come on, let's go."

Saunders spared him a glance as he was dragged unsteadily to his feet. "You're… you're p-pretty pushy for a figment."

"Hello, Second Lieutenant, here. That's my job." Hanley's voice softened. "Close your eyes, Sergeant."

Saunders did, and when he reopened them, he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Hanley on the banks of a bubbling brook with the water trickling merrily and the lieutenant murmuring to him and the pain eating him alive.

At a time like this, some might have expected this ghost-Hanley to speak of tanned beauties and country estates, but Saunders knew better. For a long time, he spoke only of quiet times, of how London looked when the trees were in bloom and nobody was afraid. Of simple things, like a hot meal, a hotter shower, a warm, clean bed.

These were the things Saunders was thinking about, when everything flashed over in a fire so agonizing, he only felt it for a moment. The ground opened up, and he fell into darkness so absolute even the pain couldn't follow him.

* * *

The cookies scenario refers to a story Victoria did, 'Sticks and Stones'. I loved it. I wrote her asking for permission to refer to it, but either she hasn't gotten back to me or in my chronic disorganization, I missed it. I hope she doesn't mind me mentioning it here. I can't even find it now, but if you can and you haven't read it, it's excellent (and adorable :-)).


	11. Chapter 11

_You can skip this if you want, at your own risk. It's mostly apologies and warnings._

**A/N:** Okay, here I am. I'm so sorry, I just don't have the space to thank each reviewer separately, just know that I coveted every single one and read them several times. And always, gratitude to Littlesis (my Scout!).

Thank you SMJ. For your concern and the fabulous review you gave me earlier.

Yes, my mystery medical stuff continues to be an issue, but it's more the demands of RL that delays me. Have you ever tossed a piece of bread into a pond and watched minnows tear it to pieces? LOL. I am the bread, as I'm sure many of you are, also. It goes without saying how very sorry I am for this extreme delay.

I so wanted to get this update out in time for Vic's birthday, so I could dedicate this to my very favorite actor/director ever and the most gorgeous creature ever born (there, done!) but there was no way. And now I face the most daunting problem to confront a tardy author; everyone's lost the thread, at a critical time. I can only hope the quick succession of the following chapters catches everybody back up.

P.S. Not counting my high-school French, Hanley's knowledge of French and German here only represent what I myself have learned from watching Combat!, and my life wasn't at stake. His is, and he's an intelligent man.

**Warnings:** Again, the torture is just about over with, including a very short but fairly unpleasant scene that is not implied. That's been pushed ahead into the next chapter, BTW. That being said, this is and will continue to be an adult fic, with harsh imagery, violence, and very high levels of Hurt/Comfort and Angst throughout. And yes, some action :-))

I think our guys need to figure out how to rescue my beloved sergeant (from me, evidently) and go about the business of getting out of Dodge…

* * *

_"Close your eyes, Sergeant."_

_Saunders did, and when he reopened them, he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Hanley on the banks of a bubbling brook with the water trickling merrily and the lieutenant murmuring to him and the pain eating him alive._

_At a time like this, some might have expected this ghost-Hanley to speak of tanned beauties and country estates, but Saunders knew better. For a long time, he spoke only of quiet times, of how London looked when the trees were in bloom and nobody was afraid. Of simple things, like a hot meal, a hotter shower, a warm, clean bed._

_These were the things Saunders was thinking about, when everything flashed over in a fire so agonizing, he only felt it for a moment. The ground opened up, and he fell into darkness so absolute even the pain couldn't follow him._

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Wolfgang Ehrlich huffed in irritation after only a couple of minutes and lowered the whip. This wasn't nearly as entertaining as it usually was and he growled, frustrated. It was this _miserable_ piece of American trash sergeant. It was like beating on a side of beef! He'd grunted occasionally when he was struck and moaned a couple times, and that was it.

Ehrlich was sure the man was conscious; he'd seen him move his head only a minute or so ago. He strode up to him now and wrenched his head back by his hair. "You think you're so tough, my little G.I.?" he gritted out.

He then noticed the slight trickle of blood coming from Saunders' right ear and sighed loudly in exasperation. This was why he ended up so bored all the time—he kept breaking all his things! He knew he only had himself to blame; he just couldn't pace himself.

In retrospect, he realized it was probably too much to ask for Saunders to still be conscious. Ehrlich had seen men die after less than this. A lot less.

He couldn't help staring into that slack face anyway and clenched his teeth. "I know you're still there somewhere, Sergeant." He leaned in close and hissed in his left ear. "I've won, again. Just like the Fatherland, I _always_ win."

Ehrlich was starting to believe he really was unconscious when Saunders suddenly jerked his head free from his grasp. The captain smiled softly and patted the bowed head. "Very good, Soldier."

He threw a companionable arm over Saunders' already-strained shoulders, eliciting a quiet moan. "You are a credit to your country, Sergeant. I respect you for that," he said truthfully, before lying through his teeth. "I almost regret how this will end."

At that moment the front door opened and Schröder shoved his way in, shaking himself like a wet dog. He scanned the room and Ehrlich laughed out loud at the almost comical expression of disappointment on his sergeant's face. Schröder looked from Saunders to the whip now held loosely in Ehrlich's right hand.

"(Sir, you're finished already?!)" The feldwebel ground his teeth. This was his second favorite part and he'd missed it, thanks to that mouthy, worthless American private.

Ehrlich smirked one last time and casually stepped away from his victim, all business now. "(Report.)"

It was all Schröder could do to tear his gaze away from Saunders before looking at his commanding officer. "(Everything is secure now, sir. The prisoners were about to revolt but I put a stop to it.)"

Ehrlich's eyes narrowed slightly in contempt. More than likely, Gunter had put a stop to it. He was planning to promote that one, pretty sure he was going to need another sergeant fairly soon.

When the hauptmann didn't say anything for a long moment, Schröder felt the need to fill in the silence and rushed to slip his head into the noose. "(It was a near thing, sir! Corporal Gunter almost opened fire.)"

"(Corporal Gunter almost did.)" Ehrlich stated dryly.

"(Yes, sir.)"

"(But you contained the situation.)"

Schröder easily heard the sarcasm, felt the fabric of his very survival slipping out of his hands and bits of truth mingled with the lies and desperation.

"(Yes, sir, I did, but if I… if Gunter _had_ fired it would have been warranted! This was more than the usual threats or begging, those two are aggressive and dangerous… the one in particular, even with a weapon at his chest I barely backed him down! It was close.)"

The feldwebel sneered then and jerked his head at Saunders' quiet form. "(It's him. The loud one was very insistent, they want him back.)"

Ehrlich chuckled. "(Well, yes, I'm sure they do. Everyone always does.)"

Schröder caught himself before he could shake his head, not wanting to display even that much dissension, but knew the hauptmann didn't understand. He hadn't been in the barn and seen their faces.

Schröder didn't care, though. He was almost delirious with relief that the focus was no longer on him, even if just for a minute, and hoping to keep it that way he turned to look contemptuously over at Saunders. He remembered the brazen expression on the tall private's face when he'd demanded his return – at gunpoint - and shook his head.

"(All that for him. Just one more weak, quivering nothing, caught like a fish out of a sea full of them.)"

Ehrlich grunted and bent his head to light a cigarette, before lifting it to squint through the smoke at Schröder. "(Who, him?)" he asked incredulously, lifting an arm to point loosely at Saunders. He laughed lightly and shook his head, blowing a cloud of smoke out his nose. "(He was a better man than you, two hours after he was born.)"

Ehrlich didn't see the purple, scalded rage that washed over Schröder's face; he had turned to look thoughtfully at Saunders.

_And do not think that will save you… Sergeant… _Ehrlich's internal dialogue trailed off and he canted his head slightly. Suddenly tugged by something he didn't understand, he stepped closer to the badly beaten man and looked at him, really looked at him. In a rare, brief moment of complete lucidity, it came to him.

This was what was going to bring Germany to her knees.

Not what—whom. Maybe not this brave man; his future was a foregone conclusion, one that could be measured with an egg timer. But there were legions just like him and more importantly, they would have men waiting in cold barns for them too, willing to risk a slug in the chest because they wanted them back, because they were willing to die, not for an ugly, red ideal spattered on black cloth, but for one, single man.

No legitimate member of the S.S. or Gestapo would **_ever_** be able to grasp that concept, and for that sole reason they were self-limiting organisms; entities doomed to failure even without outside help.

And Germany would fail with them by default.

Ehrlich hunched slightly in front of the American non-com and ducked his head, trying to see his face. "I am sorry, Sergeant. About Schröder. He doesn't understand, like you and I do." His gaze wandered to the side for a moment, before shifting back.

"Yes, Germany might fall," he reached up and delicately extricated a fragment of a pine needle from Saunders' matted hair, absurdly careful not to pull any of the blond strands out. He flicked the bit away and murmured quietly to the still figure. "Obviously… that will not be in time to save you."

He stepped away and tossed the whip onto the cluttered fireplace mantle. Schröder moved forward, his earlier anger easily displaced by his inherent bloodlust. "(You really are finished with this, sir?)" he asked, indicating the whip.

Ehrlich wasn't about to admit Saunders had outlasted his meager patience. "(I tire of this. It's late and I'm hungry.)"

Schröder's face fell, then suddenly he brightened, remembering the next step. "(I'll get the bucket.)"

Ehrlich suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm before he could hurry away. Schröder waited as Ehrlich paused, lost in thought. He could see that glitter, that look on his captain's face, and almost rubbed his hands together in glee as he waited.

"(The prisoners were very upset?)" Ehrlich asked. He was remembering the raw terror in the American private's voice out in the field earlier, the one with a French accent, when he thought his sergeant had been shot.

Ehrlich didn't wait for a response from Schröder. If that French-American private thought he was concerned earlier, it was nothing compared to what was going on with his sergeant now…

He smiled widely and slapped a hand to Schröder's shoulder. "(Go get him, the American with a French accent,)" he paused, remembering how excited Schröder always was for his bucket duty. He sighed patiently. It was the least he could do for the man, considering he meant to kill him within the next twelve hours.

"(Send somebody to get him, you can stay here.)"

Schröder beamed at him, before turning and snapping out orders. "(What are you waiting for? You heard him! You and you, go!)"

* * *

Hanley was drawing diagrams into the dirt, more to keep himself distracted than anything else. Between Caje's report and his own observations, he was almost more familiar with the layout of this compound than he was with the house he grew up in.

There was a small commotion at the barn's side door, and the lieutenant scuffed a quick hand over what he'd drawn and rose to his feet.

Two Krauts stepped in and quickly looked over at the prisoners, and both Americans were instantly on high alert.

_This is it,_ Hanley thought._ They've come for us. They couldn't get anything out of Saunders, so they're trying something else. _He felt an awful, hollow ache in his chest just thinking about it, what must have finally led up to this. _They'll use us against him, now._

The newcomers spoke to the guards on duty, and Hanley closely watched their body language, while listening for any little bit he might recognize.

"_Der Kapitän will_," the one said, gesturing and rolling his eyes. "_der Gefangene mit einem französisch Akzent."_

_Französisch. _Hanley knew that word, so did Caje. _French._

_They want Caje_, Hanley thought. _No. No, I don't think so._ He sent a warning look over at Caje that was nothing less than lethal. No one else was going to be worked over on his watch. And if someone was going to be used against Saunders, it wouldn't be a private that the sergeant was actually, truly responsible for.

The shorter of the guards started to point towards Caje when Hanley stepped forward and sneered insolently at them.

"Yeah, I'm _Französisch, _Kraut. _Je suis Francais._ So what?"

They all looked at him, and that short troublemaker started to shake his head.

Hanley bared his teeth in an ugly parody of a smile. "You know what I think, Krauts? Die Fuhrer is like a little girl. A little, Joden fraulien… " He looked up at the ceiling, as though pondering the merits of the leader of Germany. "Die Fuhrer—"

They grabbed him then and hurled him at the door. He was pretty sure he'd had them at 'Die Fuhrer'.

Caje watched him go, feeling the unsettling effects of extreme deja vu. It was different this time, though. Hanley had options Saunders hadn't had, or at least he seemed to think he did. For the life of him, Caje couldn't see how. The lieutenant cast a quick look at him, nothing but rage and hostile intent on his face. He only had two words for him as he was shoved out the door.

"Be ready."

* * *

As he was hauled out, Lieutenant Hanley fought angrily at the hands pulling at him, to walk on his own two feet. This was how it had to be done, what he'd worked for, but as they neared the house, an apprehension he'd never known in his life abruptly choked him.

All the worst images about what he'd feared flooded his mind and against his will, he suddenly began to struggle wildly, wishing, wanting for just a single moment to prepare himself, before they dragged him up the steps and bodily threw him through the closed front door.

When he stopped rolling and finally managed to drag up his head, he assessed the situation and knew at a glance there was no amount of preparation that could have helped him.

* * *

I'm trying, HOPING to get the next chapter out tonight or tomorrow. A delay now would not be good.

I'm sorry for the 'Joden' thing. Hanley was desperate. Seriously, my favorite actor, my second favorite actor, my ex-fiance, and my last boyfriend are all Jewish. So, yeah, no anti-semitism here.

The next chapter will carry several warnings (no surprise there), please read them.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** I really want to say how grateful I am to everyone for all these reviews, and especially all the well-wishes. You guys have been so good to me, and so patient. Thank you all again. I can only hope everyone's still with me after these next few chapters, lol.

Snooky-9093, I so need to PM you, with apologies and long due L.O.C.'s. The best Hogan's Heroes fanfic I ever read was a tight, serious, dramatic piece from Snooky titled '_He Who Saves a Single Life, Saves the Entire World_.' Loved it.

Thanks also to Éclaireur, for being willing to look over my scary stuff.

I'm so sorry and so upset about this delay. This was the VERY worst point in this story for it. The next few chapters are pretty intense, and now they're out of context. Sigh.

**Warnings:** The ones issued last chapter still apply. Except for the quick, brutal scene I warned you about the torture's over with, but this chapter has some harsh imagery and lots and lots of Angst. The next chapter will carry the most stringent warnings for H/C in the entire story.

On with the show…

* * *

_As he was hauled out, Lieutenant Hanley fought angrily at the hands pulling at him, to walk on his own two feet. This was how it had to be done, what he'd worked for, but as they neared the house, an apprehension he'd never known in his life abruptly choked him. _

_All the worst images about what he'd feared flooded his mind and against his will, he suddenly began to struggle wildly, wishing, wanting for just a single moment to prepare himself, before they dragged him up the steps and bodily threw him through the closed front door._

_When he stopped rolling and finally managed to drag up his head, he assessed the situation and knew at a glance there was no amount of preparation that could have helped him._

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Ehrlich paced for a minute, impatient and restless. He picked the whip back up during his wanderings and toyed with it, looking over at Schröder and shaking his head. "(It must be your birthday, Sergeant.)"

Schröder lifted his head from where he was struggling with the bucket he'd prepared earlier. "(Sir?)"

Ehrlich didn't answer, letting the strands trail through his fingers. He looked over at where Saunders hung unaware and grinned wickedly. His guard was surely down by now…

Still smiling, the captain shook the whip out and jerked his arm back, about to crack him one more time when he paused, suddenly remembering something important he had needed to ask Schröder.

"(You set the watches for the night, I assume?)" he asked, irritated all over again that he had to oversee something so basic. He REALLY needed to start thinking twice before doing away with his lieutenants.

Schröder set the bucket down, using the moment to try and compose himself and still the sudden shaking of his hands. He'd forgotten. He closed his eyes for a half-second. He'd forgotten to give out the schedule to the night sentries. It wasn't like they were going to run up and volunteer, especially on a night like this. Maybe when the captain took his evening meal, he could sneak around and set them then. If he lived that long.

He looked up at where his commanding officer stood with a whip in his hands and murder in his eyes. "(Yes sir, of course. Everything is all set,)" he said earnestly.

Ehrlich stared at him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "(It had better be. For your sake it had better be.)" He shook his head. _Idiots_, he thought. _I'm surrounded by—_

He jumped when suddenly the front door crashed open and an American soldier tumbled in in a tangle of arms and legs. The man rolled to a stop and raised his head, and Ehrlich almost screamed out loud in frustration. He really was—he was completely surrounded by idiots. This wasn't the French-American private, it was the injured one the sergeant had carried in.

Ehrlich ground his teeth viciously and shook his head, suddenly tired of the whole affair and everyone in it, every miserable, single one of them. Beyond livid, he shifted the whip he still held to his right hand and reached for his sidearm, though for what he had in mind a Schmeisser would be better suited—the Luger only held nine rounds. Obviously, the first at the top of his to-do list was going to be this piece of Allied garbage before him, appropriately enough still splayed out on his knees.

The hauptmann's hand had closed over the butt of his pistol when he glanced at the man he was two seconds away from shooting and he paused, watching as the American looked from the whip in Ehrlich's hand over to where the sergeant was strung up, and a stunning array of emotion and color passed over the man's face. In a matter of seconds his visage went from pale to milk-white to near-red and he made a strangled sound deep in his throat.

Ehrlich took his hand away from the Luger and stepped forward, caught up in the moment, cruelty and madness running hot through his veins like a sick, familiar acid. The American sergeant hadn't yet given him what he wanted and he _needed_ to hurt someone, badly—physically, mentally, it didn't matter. As an audience this private would do; Ehrlich realized now he didn't care it wasn't the French-American, the shock and anguish on this man's face was enough. The private opened his mouth as if trying to say something, but nothing came out.

Feeling his pulse quickening in anticipation, Ehrlich made a pretense of looking over at Schröder. He sighed loudly and shook his head. "I'm afraid the sergeant has injured himself. We cannot allow these wounds to go untreated, it's against the Geneva Convention." The feldwebel didn't know enough English to scrape two words together but it didn't matter; they'd done this many times before and the English wasn't for him, anyway.

It didn't take a military strategist to see where this was going and the American private suddenly found his voice in a hurry, growling angrily and lunging to his feet against the rough hands grabbing at him. "You leave him alone, you _sick _piece of—"

"As our supply lines have been cut we must make do with what we have," Ehrlich talked over him, ostensibly speaking to Schröder but staring at the private, drinking in the abject horror and impotent fury. He signaled to Schröder. "While the saltwater is painful, it will prevent—"

His voice was drowned out by a sudden cacophony of sound and chaos as several things happened almost at once. Schröder stepped forward with the bucket at the same time the American private violently threw himself forward against his bellowing, struggling guards, shouting at the top of his lungs. "No, DON'T!"

Ehrlich turned to watch hopefully as Schröder hurled the contents of the bucket at Saunders and yes, yes, YES, _finally_ he got him; the sergeant jerked, threw his head back and screamed like the proverbial _todesfee_.

Watching intently as the sergeant's head lolled back forward, Ehrlich grinned from ear to ear and sighed deeply. He really needed a cigarette. The continuing sounds of mayhem were still going on behind him though and he turned around, eager to see the reaction of his other victim.

Even before his mind took in the scene he took a reflexive step back, the smile faltering. It only occurred to him now how ridiculously _tall_ this American was, and that was only because the man was currently wading through Germans like they were so many puppies, his face almost scarlet with rage.

Schröder shouted and more of his men besieged the private, only to be thrown off as the American bulled forward.

Ehrlich stumbled back another couple steps. He couldn't tell if the private was heading for him or Saunders, and certainly he didn't care. He'd finally clawed the Luger from its holster when the sheer weight of numbers finally dragged the American to the floor. The GI had been bellowing threats and obscenities all along but now he suddenly went still and snarled out something Ehrlich hadn't completely heard but was sure was an open challenge, one he couldn't ignore.

* * *

"You… _touch_ him again and I'll kill you."

Gil Hanley's voice, normally a smooth, pleasing baritone, was now like a fine, deep wine, spilt and spreading over concrete. "I'll kill you," he whispered again into the floor, where his face had been pushed into.

Ehrlich stepped forward, part of him elated at the possible challenge, part of him infuriated at what he thought he heard this pathetic dog of a private say.

"What was that, Private?" Incensed and excited, he knelt in front of the gasping soldier. Suddenly enraged, he jerked him upright and slapped him viciously. "What. Did. You. Say?"

"I said…" Hanley stopped and struggled mentally, with every single fiber of his being.

He knew what he'd said was absolutely pointless and if it had been heard it would backfire terribly, but he couldn't help himself. He panted desperately, lost in a blind rage.

He'd barely felt the blow to his face. All he could hear was that awful scream and truly, for a moment it didn't matter that it was his friend or his sergeant or anyone that he even remotely knew; it was the terrible sound of a strong man finally pushed beyond his endurance. It seemed to be still echoing in the room even now.

That old cliché was true—Hanley really did see red; everything bathed in a shaking, sweaty heat.

He _had_ to get control of himself. Defiance was a fine thing—maybe the finest of things, when a man was alone and in the last seconds of his life. But for the most part, reality didn't work that way. He was responsible for others and if he was to do his job—

y_ou'd better get ready to do your job._

—he needed to be in control. To be an officer. For the man hanging in front of him; _his_ man, _his_ sergeant, who'd already done his job. If the lieutenant wanted to save his men and himself, he had to plan, not feel.

_and now that you've told me all about it_…

Hanley breathed out and evened his voice, with effort. "I said, if you keep that up, you'll kill him. You won't learn anything, then. You'll kill him."

Apparently forgetting what the private might or might not have said, Ehrlich unexpectedly leaned back and chuckled. He looked over at Saunders.

"No matter. I didn't expect to learn anything from him." He paused to bare his teeth in a rictorous grin at Hanley as he got to his feet. "I never expected to. However, I had to try, and I still have two privates. Everybody hears things."

Bitter understanding and inchoate dread already lodged in his brain, Hanley gestured at Saunders and asked anyway. "Then why did y—"

"Everyone needs a… what do you call it?" Ehrlich interrupted. "Yes… hobby. A hobby."

Incensed, Hanley was just opening his mouth to seal their collective doom when Ehrlich reached to the fireplace mantle and picked something up. He held a pistol up to the light, probably checking the safety, and racked the slide back to jack a round into the chamber. It was an American Colt .45.

"As I said, I had to try. And my time with the sergeant was most… interesting."

No head games, no fanfare; he turned to the unconscious man hanging blissfully unaware and nudged the muzzle into the blond hair and started to squeeze the trigger, with no more thought or malice than he would lighting a cigarette.

"_Nowaitstop_!" Hanley shouted. "What… what are you… are you nuts?! What are you doing?!" Suddenly there was no plan, no clever officer-talk, nothing but a horrified man desperate to stop the unthinkable. He scrabbled for something, anything.

"He knows what you want! I know he knows!" The words tumbled out in a rush. Hanley's mind raced frantically ahead; Saunders' only hope being in him saying in maybe two seconds some any tiny thing to catch Ehrlich's attention, while his hindbrain gave it up as hopeless and braced for the shot. "—I saw him with the captain, they were looking at a… at a big map, him and the lieutenant—they were talking with him forever! If you… LeMay and I don't know crap!"

Hanley stopped for a breath and tried to regroup. There had been no gunshot, Ehrlich must be listening.

"Does the German army tell privates anything?! 'Cause ours sure doesn't! If you really need information, you need _him_!"

Ehrlich paused, the gun still held to Saunders' head, and regarded Hanley like he might a slow child, or an irritating puppy he was going to have to kill.

"I _know_ he knows things, Private." Ehrlich ground his teeth furiously and grabbed a fistful of Saunders' hair with his other hand, yanking his head up and shaking it. "Maybe not much, but something! I don't have time for these games!" He ground the gun in harder, as if he were planning to just push it through the non-com's head. Hanley was so grateful Saunders was still unconscious.

It _was_ hopeless. Hanley felt it and grieved to his marrow. _One last try. I'm sorry for this, Saunders..._

"You just couldn't break him," the lieutenant said in quiet anger, knowing it was true. "All that _talk_ about the S.S. and their methods. You couldn't break him, and this is your way of sweeping it under the rug. Oh, you'll tell your superiors that you tried." His voice deepened and slowed. "One little, American sergeant and two privates, and you'll have learned nothing." He shook his head in mock sadness. "What will they think?"

Ehrlich lifted his head and looked at him. There was no sound in the house except the wind and Saunders' pitiful struggles to breathe. Everyone else, regardless of language, held their breath.

Hanley had a moment of profound relief when Ehrlich let go of Saunders, before he had to brace himself as an angry psychopath rushed across the room at him.

* * *

Paul LeMay sat against the wall of the old barn, not feeling the hay poking him, or the cold settling around him, or even the pervasive, suffocating gloom. Even as a child he had walked the Louisiana bayous in the dead of night, among its most dangerous inhabitants; darkness held no terrors for him. It shrouded him, protected him, and like a tomcat walking in a moonlit graveyard it would flow around him when he moved. He rested in it now, and watched his enemy.

The Krauts guarding him watched him back with dead eyes. The Cajun was sure he had seen cottonmouths with more intelligence. He wouldn't be foolish enough to underestimate them, though. The shorter one was especially vigilant, and handled his Schmeisser with easy familiarity. LeMay held his still position, and waited.

* * *

At that moment, Lieutenant Hanley was doing his best to protect the injured left side of his head while he rode out the attack from that lunatic, Ehrlich.

The man shouted and flailed at him, so unreasonably angry the blows lacked any kind of damaging force. Hanley took it in complete, almost patient silence. It would take a whole lot more than this before he made a sound, especially after seeing what Saunders had endured.

The lieutenant was just so relieved Ehrlich was finally leaving his sergeant alone he almost felt like he was cheating, like he was getting away with something. That might not last though, after the desperate, inflammatory comments he'd just made.

Ehrlich cuffed him one last time alongside his already-pounding head. "Do you have anymore foolish comments, _Private_?" he spat, like the rank was an insult.

Probably not liking the fact his victim towered over him, he suddenly grabbed the American by his shirtfront and shoved him violently at a chair. "Sit down!" he roared.

Hanley stumbled and fell over the chair, noticing as he did the ropes still tied to the rungs in back. The implications didn't escape him and as he righted the chair and sat down, he struggled to keep himself in check.

The lieutenant looked over at where Ehrlich had turned to growl at one of his men and Hanley's hands twitched and curled reflexively. He knew he could snap that sadistic, posturing ankle-biter in two and smile while he did it if he just had half a chance. How many good, brave men had met their end at that monster's hands?

He sighed. It was not an oversight that he wasn't tied—the muzzles of at least two weapons tracked his every move. He shook himself mentally and fought to clear his mind.

Revenge could wait. The number one priority right now was getting Saunders cut down as quickly as possible. Hanley again looked over at where his sergeant hung silently and cringed inwardly at the terrible sight, the image burned into his retinas as though he'd looked into a light too bright. Yet another thing added to the parade he'd see every time he closed his eyes at night. That position alone had to be absolutely excruciating and even breathing would be just about...

_Stop_. He shook his head, irritated at himself._ No, __**Lieutenant**_. _Your first priority is keeping him alive, him and the rest of you. So stop looking at him and start figuring out how you're going to get yourself and your men out of this mess._

If he could just get the three of them into the barn for the night they had a chance, a miniscule one, granted, but a chance.

He peered over at where Ehrlich was still talking with one of his corporals and nodded to himself. The man was insane and egotistical, but somewhere in all that he was also desperate. Caje had related every detail to his CO he could remember, including the questions Ehrlich had asked Saunders in the field.

_Why are you in this area?_

Clearly, that was the main concern. _They're not just interested in that sector,_ Hanley thought. _They're going all out to protect it. Obviously there's something there, and suddenly the Allies are crawling all over the place. They have to be desperate for information by now. _

Hanley watched as Ehrlich finished his little meeting and stomped up to him.

The German crouched and stared. "Now, what was I doing? Oh, yes." He struck out suddenly in a vicious, backhanded blow that snapped Hanley's head to one side. The lieutenant kept his face turned away for a moment while the room spun and he probed his teeth with his tongue, sure something was loose. He was only marginally successful in schooling the disdain from his features when he looked back.

"I am going to educate you on the methods of the S.S., Private," Ehrlich snarled. "By the time I am finished, you will be envious of how well your sergeant had it." He looked over his shoulder to glare at Saunders again and Hanley tensed.

"You said I could not break him? I did not try. I was only… indulging myself. I know his kind," Ehrlich gritted out. "They are like _Esel_…" he paused, struggling for the English translation. "… donkeys. They are like donkeys. Pack animals. Too stupid to know when they are broken." He suddenly stood upright.

Hanley started his assault on a situation he had known would decay. "You just haven't—"

"_Den Mund halten_!" Ehrlich shouted, cuffing him again. "Shut your stupid mouth, _Müll!_ My superiors?! My superiors can have him!" He angrily snatched up what looked like a heavy, glass ashtray from nearby and bolted it at Saunders, missing his head by maybe six inches. "In all this time all he has offered me is his identification and a knee in the _Klöten!_" Ehrlich screeched at the top of his lungs. "I know his numbers better than I know my own!"

Hanley stared at him, incomprehending, until snatches of a ribald joke Brockmeyer had once told came to him and he dropped his head for a second, momentarily overcome by ancient, territorial pride and the most idiotic and frightening need to laugh out loud. Terror instantly reasserted itself and he lifted his head. "Captain, there's another—"

Ehrlich took a step back from Hanley and shook his head. "I do not have the time to break donkeys." He started looking around the floor, and Hanley knew he was searching for the gun he'd dropped. "He will not tell me anything." He bent down and picked up the pistol.

"_Hauptmann_, listen to me," Hanley shouted, leaning forward in his chair. Ehrlich's head snapped up at his German title.

Lessons learned since early childhood guiding him, Gil Hanley called on a lifetime of trying to please the implacable; of knowing what someone needed to hear and knowing how to say it.

"You can still come out of this a hero," he said quietly. "What I said earlier, about your superiors? You know it's true. They're gonna want to know what you found out. Seriously, you had three prisoners and learned nothing?" He shook his head. "They'll kill you. You _know_ they will. Wouldn't you?"

He paused, drawing a steady breath. He had to be so careful, now. He was putting all three of them at serious risk and he knew it. Without question, under the circumstances the threat to his own life was a non-issue, but he was risking Caje's, too.

These thoughts raced through his mind, ending with one last, grim scenario: him returning to the barn without Saunders. 'Hey, Caje…' he could hear himself saying. '…yeah, sorry… he's dead. I thought for a second there I could save him, but I decided it was just too risky for you.'

And that was his only comfort: the complete surety that if Caje knew what was at stake—Saunders taking one in the head or, maybe worse, spending an entire night hanging from his wrists—he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt what his choice would be.

Hanley found himself in foreign and uncomfortable waters; making decisions, not as an officer for subordinates, but as one of three friends.

Lies, truth, and exaggeration wove themselves seamlessly together, even as he spoke. "Everything you need to impress your superiors is right there," he said, nodding at Saunders. "He's been around a long time, he's trusted with more. Imagine coming to them with troop strength and deployment, sector layouts, everything. You just… you have to come at him the right way."

Ehrlich stared at him for a minute and Hanley could almost see ambition struggling with instability in the hazel eyes. "I just told you, Private. He has given me nothing I couldn't have read from his tags."

"And he's not going to," Hanley stated flatly. "Not like this. I know his type, too." Hanley looked over at Saunders and let an expression of slight disdain cross his face.

"Go Army, death before dishonor and all that crap." He shook his head. "Well, not me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like the Sarge and all, but if he wants to take one for the team, that's his business. I don't owe the army a thing. I just want to get home with the same number of holes I had when I left, and I don't want beat on."

The cynical, untruthful words came easy and without shame. At this point, he'd do anything, say anything. He'd tell him Saunders wore high heels every Saturday if it got him cut down even thirty seconds sooner. Then again, that might not work out so well…

"Your point, Private?"

"My point is this: I just got married maybe six months ago, and I haven't seen her since. LeMay's got three kids. Tough Guy over there forgets that the rest of us have lives but..." -_careful, now_- "… but he does care, a lot. We just need to remind him of… of how much we have to lose."

Ehrlich knelt down in front of him, and the smile that spread across his face was terrible to see. He looked at Hanley like he was a fish he couldn't wait to eviscerate. "You've been very helpful, Private. I'll wake him up, and… chat with you for awhile. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner…"

_Neither do I, _Hanley thought._ Maybe because you're a crazy, stupid bastard? _

"Well, yeah, you could do that, but I've already seen you're smarter than that."

It took all of Hanley's self-control to continue the charade, looking down and brushing at his uniform.

He waited a beat, then hurriedly stepped into the small pause before Ehrlich spoke. He looked up and shrugged in slight irritation. "What? You don't need me to point it out, you've figured it out already."

He inclined his head in Saunders' direction. "He's not gonna give in to you. Not now, not later. You told me so yourself. And it _won't matter_ what you do to me or LeMay, he's dug in, permanently, against _you_. He'll feel bad for us, but it won't matter."

He made a face in Saunders' direction. "It never does, to guys like him. He… he won't give in to you, but I think he will…" Hanley's voice trailed off to a theatric murmur and he looked down, fidgeting.

Ehrlich grabbed him by one arm of his field jacket and shook him. "I can't hear you, _Müll!_"

Hanley jerked his head up, working hard to broadcast fear when all he felt was an overwhelming need to kill this man.

"…he'll give in to us, okay?! Is that what you wanna hear?! He's not gonna give you squat, but he'll… he'll give in to us, me and LeMay. That's just how he is. Let me take him back to the barn. We'll take care of him, and he'll feel even more obligated to us. We'll talk to him. Besides…" he looked over at Saunders again, and found there was no human way to disguise the tremble in his voice.

"From the looks of him, I don't think you could keep him awake long enough, anyway." He turned back to Ehrlich. "Let us try." He coughed out a bitter, hateful laugh. "What do you have to lose?"

Ehrlich stared at him for a very long time. He moved in closer, not breaking eye contact. "You do not talk like a private. At all."

Hanley had expected this and he shrugged easily, insolently. "Yeah, well, I wasn't always a private." He smirked. "What can I say? I have a big mouth."

Ehrlich nodded slowly. "Yes, so I have heard." His expression darkened and he tilted his head toward Saunders. "He, also, has a 'big mouth'. And you can see where it brought him."

In an automatic, reflexive response Hanley looked over at Saunders, suddenly seeing not only his close friend and best non-com but a face put to the faceless; a representative of the tens of thousands of brave, competant men, ultimately reduced to nothing more than the playthings of self-important tyrants.

Suddenly, this was all just too much and it had gone on too long. Hanley abruptly felt that quick, furious rush; his vision narrowed and his breathing accelerated against his will. It was the same physiologic response he always felt just before he had to engage in hand-to-hand combat, except with more anger, and he worked hard to fight it down, now. They were _so_ _close_…

His nostrils flared and he looked again at Saunders. He'd failed him before, terribly, and he **_would not_** do it again. He pulled in a quick, deep breath, trying to ease the need to pant. "We'll… we'll talk to him, Captain. It works for everyone, especially… especially you."

Ehrlich sighed imperiously and made a dismissive gesture, even though he'd long since agreed to the plan. It had been a long day, and he was tired and hungry. This idea of torturing the privates in front of the sergeant had some serious appeal, though, and he wished he had thought of it before he'd rendered the sergeant insensate.

He also remembered the expression on this private's face when the sergeant finally broke and screamed like a little fräulein and he smiled to himself, suddenly glad he hadn't killed the non-com. Tomorrow was a new day, with new games.

Ehrlich lit a cigarette and pulled the smoke deeply into his lungs and held it for a second before blowing it out. He loved American cigarettes, and it was a tribute to his success he'd smoked nothing but for a long time now.

He looked at where Hanley tensely waited. "Very well, Private. I am not an unreasonable man. My men will take you both to the barn, but you must realize I am going to expect some return on my good will."

He turned and spoke to his men, pointing at Saunders, and the feldwebel and two others moved toward the unconscious American. Hanley jumped to his feet.

* * *

_Don't worry, the next chapter is completely finished. Actually the next two or three chaps are done and will be posted all at once. I had some concerns about Chap 13 and Eclaireur has kindly agreed to look it over for me (Thank you, Scout!). I should be able to post it tomorrow night, Thursday at the latest._

_The saltwater scenario suggested itself to me when I was reading Lab Squad Leader Dede's H/C masterpiece 'Trusted Bond', found on Doc Two's amazing Combat! Journals website, borrowed with permission._


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Wow. The reviews for this chapter were especially kind. Snooky, Éclaireur, thank you so much. And JL, what a nice thing to say. All of you, such nice things. *smile* Glad you're enjoying it.

Thanks again, Scout (Éclaireur) for looking Chap 13 over. It wouldn't have gotten posted tonight if you hadn't, LOL. I had some concerns… Anyway, any mistakes or issues are strictly mine.

**Warnings:** As mentioned, this chapter carries my highest warnings for H/C. I mean seriously, it's thick. Very high Angst and disturbing imagery also. I am posting Chap Fourteen at the same time so anyone can skip ahead if it gets too much, without losing the thread of the story. It's high in fourteen also, but not as much. PLEASE feel free skip if you want, I don't want to lose anybody.

* * *

_He looked at where Hanley tensely waited. "Very well, Private. I am not an unreasonable man. My men will take you both to the barn, but you must realize I am going to expect some return on my good will." _

_He turned and spoke to his men, pointing at Saunders, and the feldwebel and two others moved toward the unconscious American. Hanley jumped to his feet._

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

"No!" Hanley shouted and checked a reflexive lunge toward Saunders. He struggled to calm himself and lowered his voice. "I'll carry him." He tried to look helpful, while still inching forward. He would be cold and dead before he let these creatures lay another hand on his badly injured sergeant.

"Why wear out your troops when you have slave labor right here?"

Ehrlich smiled and canted his head, the picture of benevolence.

Hanley saw Saunders' field jacket crumpled in the corner of the room, no doubt yanked off in their rush to tear at the man underneath it. He was reaching for it when someone shouted and he froze. He turned slowly with his hands held from his sides. Pure rage deepened the lieutenant's already low tones.

"I need his jacket," he bit off. "It's freezing in the barn and his clothes are wet. He's no use to you if he dies of shock." He waited a half-second, then angrily snatched up the clothing and approached Saunders.

Hanley stopped and stood for a frozen moment in front of his unconscious sergeant, his mouth suddenly so dry he couldn't swallow. "Saunders," he whispered huskily. The non-com's head rested on his chest, his filthy blond hair and ragged uniform still dripping saltwater.

_He took this for me. For me…_ Hanley shook his head. "I wish you hadn't done this," he murmured. No contest. No contest at all. Hanley would have endured anything for this not to have happened. Didn't Saunders understand that?

Up close he could see the extent of the damage only hinted at before. All of the sergeant's weight hung from his bloody wrists. He'd clearly taken a vicious, prolonged beating, not including whatever was hidden by his uniform. And his back… the lieutenant took a quick look, and knew at a glance that that was going to be another of the many images he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

Hanley blinked his burning eyes as he considered how he was going to get him down, as quickly and with as little damage and pain for the sergeant as possible. He didn't think there was anywhere he could touch him without hurting him.

Triage, then. He reached under the shredded, wet shirt and lightly ran a hand over Saunders' ribs. The sergeant's skin was cold and clammy with the onset of shock, and as Hanley feared there were badly swollen areas that almost surely meant broken ribs. He didn't want to carry him in his arms and put pressure on his lacerated back, but there was no choice. He could do serious internal damage if he put him over his shoulder.

Hanley looked over at where the Krauts were arguing amongst themselves about something and he clenched his teeth, furious and powerless. He wanted him down _right_ _now_, before one of Saunders' abused shoulders slipped out of joint, if they hadn't already.

With that disturbing thought, Hanley moved in so that the sergeant's battered head rested lightly against his own shoulder. Careful not to jostle him, he swept his hands up under Saunders' armpits and over his shoulders. He didn't think either one was dislocated, but it would still be excruciating when his arms came down.

Saunders suddenly moaned quietly and Hanley sighed, grieved. He had hoped he'd stay out until he'd gotten him to the barn, but apparently that wasn't going to be. Until now Hanley had fought the need to speak to him, not wanting him to wake up, but he did so now, quietly. "Shhh, it's okay. I'm here, I'm right here. I've got you."

So much suffering for his sake, and it wasn't over yet; he still had to move him. Hanley would have given anything at that moment for him to not have to endure any more, especially not at his hands, and in front of these… monsters.

The lieutenant looked over at Ehrlich and his lot - the Conference of Nazi Bastards showed signs of breaking up.

Having wanted to get this next terrible part over with without providing them anymore entertainment, Hanley quickly pulled Saunders' jacket from where he'd thrown it over his own shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he carefully wrapped it around the sergeant as best he could with the man's arms still tethered, speaking quietly to him the whole time.

Hanley was as gentle as possible but when the cloth made contact with his raw back Saunders jerked and cried out quietly; a weak, pitiful sound Hanley knew he would never have made if he'd been fully conscious.

"Easy, Saunders, it's me," he whispered in his ear. "It's over, all over. I've got you, you're safe. No one's gonna hurt you anymore."

Saunders tried to lift his head. "S… Saun… Saunders," he panted breathlessly. "Sergeant."

Hanley gritted his teeth. _He can't hear me._ Resentfully aware of the audience he now had, he tried again to reassure him, wishing, wanting so badly to make him understand he wasn't being tortured anymore.

"… Sarge, it's me, Hanley. I've got you, it's alright. I've gotta pick you up now, okay? C'mon."

Hanley hurriedly tied the sleeves of the jacket high on the non-com's chest, then moved in to hold him carefully while the German sergeant sawed roughly through the ropes. First one arm, then the other came down, and Saunders dropped heavily into the lieutenant's firm hold. Hanley swung him smoothly up.

Saunders twitched and moaned. "…t-two… two …s-s-seven-" He cried out again and started to arch his back. Afraid of dropping him, Hanley was just lowering him to the floor when Saunders abruptly shuddered and went slack, his head coming to rest quietly against the lieutenant's shoulder.

_Oh, thank God_, Hanley thought, relieved. He readjusted his hold and rose to his full height. He looked down at his NCO. From this angle, he could see a broad line of dark bruises circling Saunders' throat. _He choked him. On top of everything else, he choked him._ Even unconscious the sergeant trembled in agony and shock, and Hanley breathed into the gathering rage.

He carefully made his way toward the door, followed by the German sergeant, pausing when Ehrlich moved forward and spoke.

"Convince him, Private. In the morning I will try to reason with him again, then I will… speak with you. Look at your sergeant, and know this same unfortunate outcome will be yours. Tell the other private." He made a show of examining his gloves. "I will come for you in the morning."

_You will be dead in the morning, _Hanley thought.

"I understand," Hanley said.

He turned and stepped out the door with his burden held close, the feldwebel behind him.

Ehrlich watched them go, and wandered toward the closed door. He stopped for a minute and caressed an ancient, ceramic pitcher on the kitchen table. He studied the blue cows grazing on the white background, before slowly sweeping it off to watch it fall to the floor and shatter. "_habe ich etwas übersehen..."_

He looked thoughtfully toward the door and listened to what sounded like sleet spattering against it, then turned to watch Korporal Dierker pawing hurriedly through a sack.

"_Denken Sie daran, sie brauchen auch Köche in Stalingrad, Narr. Ich habe Hunger!"_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Lieutenant Hanley stepped out onto the porch and gasped. The weather had further deteriorated while he'd been in the house. The wind lashed freezing rain into his face and he curled Saunders into his chest, desperate to keep him warm. The German behind him growled angrily and pushed him.

"Alright, I'm moving. Knock it off."

Hanley picked his way carefully. Strong as he was, carrying a 175 lb man in front of himself was no picnic under the best of conditions, and these were probably the worst conditions possible. It was hazardous and extremely difficult. It was dark, the ground was uneven and muddy, cluttered with roots and downed branches and, worst of all, Hanley couldn't see his feet past Saunders' shivering body. _Please, God, don't let me drop him, _he prayed._ Not after all this._

They were about halfway to the barn when Saunders suddenly twisted weakly and moaned. Hanley shushed him and spoke quietly to him.

"Hold on, Saunders, it's just a little further. Almost there. We're almost there. Caje and I will get you fixed up and you'll be warm." He continued murmuring softly to him as he walked, unaware of the effect it would have on the sullen, angry German behind them.

* * *

Feldwebel Eric Schröder glared hatefully at the Americans. This was it, he'd had it. He was wet and cold and out of cigarettes, and it was their fault. If he had his way, they'd bayonet the three of them and move on. It seemed he always pulled this type of crap duty. He then became aware that the private was speaking to the sergeant, and he snapped. No wonder he was moving so slowly! Enraged, Schröder suddenly lashed out viciously, striking the tall soldier in the back and shoving him hard. "_Schnell, Ungeziefer_!" he snarled.

He watched as the private struggled to keep his footing, then went down hard with the half-dead sergeant. Schröder laughed, delighted. Well, that was fun! This might not be so bad, after all! He decided he'd wait for them to get back up and do it again.

He moved in and looked down as the private looked back at him, and Schröder smirked at him. As soon as he saw the expression on the man's face, though, he knew he had made a mistake. He realized too late the soldier wasn't looking at him in anger or fear, but to fix his position. The very next second the GI half-rolled and suddenly uncoiled his long body like a whip, crunching his big, US Army boot into Schröder's left knee with seemingly all his strength. There was a loud POP and a sound like someone stepping on a pile of wet walnuts, and Schröder dropped his gun and drew breath to shriek.

He never got the chance.

* * *

As soon as Hanley felt the shove he knew they'd go down, but he tried. He did manage to buy himself an extra second to adjust his grip, though. Stumbling, he reflexively let go of Saunders' legs with his left arm and wrapped it around his lower back instead, at the same time running his right arm up the length of Saunders' spine to cradle the back of his head. When they hit the ground, Hanley took the impact on his arms and knees and still somehow managed to keep most of his weight off the injured man.

Pain rushed up his arms and legs but evaporated before it reached his brain, burnt away in the furnaces of rage and adrenaline. He took it all: the fear, the pain, the fury he'd felt when Saunders whimpered when they fell, and focused them tightly into dirty purpose and lashed out.

Even as the German sergeant sucked air and hunched over, Hanley was pulling both arms from underneath Saunders and came off the ground with all his weight behind a savage, upward strike to Schröder's face. The man dropped like a rock, dead before he hit the ground; the blow having driven his sinus bone into his brain.

Hanley gained his feet and crouched over the dead German. He panted with the adrenalin that still rushed through his system and quickly scanned his surroundings. Much later, it would be revealed that he'd sustained a minor fracture in one forearm, but he didn't feel it now.

He kicked hard at the body in front of him, confirming that one threat had been neutralized and checked for others, looking toward the house, then the barn. The life and death encounter he'd just endured had been eerily quiet considering what it had entailed, and the howling wind would have erased anything else, but still he crouched and watched.

Rain plastered down his coal-black hair and ran into his eyes. His senses were opened wide to everything around him. The cold, brittle air smelled like pine and wet earth, and the sounds of nature unbridled dominated everything. His breath streamed out in short, dragon-like plumes.

The clarity that came to a man at times like this was almost surreal. It was as though nothing else existed anywhere on the entire planet but him and Saunders and a dead man.

_Saunders._

The lieutenant dropped down next to where his NCO was sprawled on the wet ground. He was out. Hanley spared another quick glance for the house and barn, then laid a hand alongside Saunders' throat and gently turned his head to catch the flickering light from the front porch. He groaned softly at the sight of that battered face. If it weren't for the mane of wet, blond hair and the stripes on his ragged sleeves, Hanley couldn't have even been sure it was him. His pulse was shallow and too fast, but at least it was there.

He leaned over his sergeant, trying to keep the rain off him and looked again at the barn. His mind raced through possible scenarios and their conclusions, sorting and discarding at top speed. Each suggested the same thing. The best plan—the only plan—for taking the barn required him carrying in a body, and while he absolutely _had_ to get Saunders out of the elements, the risk was too great. He couldn't endanger him that way. He couldn't.

And time was running out. He had to get the three of them out of sight, before anyone stepped out of either building. Hanley was vaguely surprised they hadn't come looking for Schröder already.

The lieutenant stood and moved over to the German. Luck was with him; he'd carried a Schmeisser. _For me?_ _Oh Adolf,_ _you shouldn't have._ He smiled grimly_._ _Don't worry,_ _I'll put it to good use._ Hanley slung the weapon and frisked the body, snatching spare ammo and a bayonet, then grabbed the corpse by its arms and dragged it just out of sight. He hurried back to pick up Schröder's helmet and tossed it after him.

He went back to Saunders, picked him up, and looked around. The only cover even slightly close by was a small area of trees and thick shrubbery about ten yards off the path, parallel to the back of the house and he headed for it. It was somewhat protected, but it was just at the edge of the line of sight for a back room of the house and indeed, dim light spilled from the room to weakly illuminate the area. Hanley crept behind the copse and laid Saunders down, watching the window the whole time.

The lieutenant leaned in low. "Saunders?" Hanley laid a hand on the sergeant's shoulder and very lightly shook him. "Saunders? Can you hear me?" There was no response. "Saunders, I'll be right back. I'm… I won't be long."

He gently turned him onto his side and when he rested the sergeant's arm on the ground, he noticed the remnants of rope still tied tightly around his mangled wrists. Hanley closed his eyes and dropped his head, totally overwhelmed and completely out of time.

He needed to get him inside and cared for. He needed to get him out of the freezing rain; the man was already in shock for crying out loud, cold was the worst thing for him! He needed better light to cut these ropes off before permanent damage was done, if it hadn't been already—Saunders' hands were purple and swollen, and blood from his wrists soaked the cuffs of his shirt.

And right now, Hanley could do none of these things. He swallowed back a weary, stricken sob. He couldn't even cover him. For his sketchy half-plan to work, he needed his own jacket and Schröder's, too.

He reached in and untied the sleeves of Saunders' field jacket and straightened it out to cover him as much as he could. On a sudden, blind impulse, he lifted the sergeant's shoulders and pulled him onto his lap. For one stolen, razor-edged minute, he curled over him and just sat, lost.

The wind rattled through the trees and the things under them, and Hanley leaned into it. The cold seeped into him. At this moment, he was absolutely certain it was all any of them had ever known.

He was so very tired. Tired of duty, and what it required of him. He was tired of sending men out; losing men, leaving men—sons, brothers, hopeful souls, betraying all that was good and valiant for the greater cause. Here in front of him—beaten, freezing, maybe dying, was nobility and uncompromising courage. Heroism in its truest sense. He recognized it because he unconsciously possessed the same things himself, willing to pay the same cost. He was still prepared to pay it.

Saunders would endure just about anything for duty. Because he was ordered, because it was right, or simply because it had to be done. He might have done what he did today for another officer, for strategy's… no, for his _humanity's_ sake. He would offer his life for the greater good, but would give even more than that for a brother.

As would Hanley.

He looked down at Saunders and could still hear him, trying to gasp out his serial number before he passed out. Resisting, unto what as far as he knew was his last breath; giving no more to anyone than what could be taken from his dog tags. Beaten, but not _beaten_.

_And I can't even cover him._ The lieutenant pulled in a shuddering breath and lifted his head. He didn't want to leave him here alone, but it had to be done. He had to hurry. He didn't have a minute to spare ten minutes ago.

Hanley lowered him gently to the ground and started scrabbling around, dragging leaves over him. Hopefully they'd at least protect him from the biting wind. Saunders couldn't get any wetter, and with the darkness they would shield him from a casual glance. As an afterthought, Hanley bent down quickly and whispered in Saunders' ear. "Hold on for me, Sergeant. Hold on."

The lieutenant rose up to a crouch, looked at the window, and crept away, already pulling off his jacket while heading back to where he'd left Schröder. Hanley the soldier pushed through the darkness without looking back, intent now and completely focused. Hanley the man was left behind, sitting at his friend's side in the rain.

* * *

Obergrenadier Josef Strauss sighed and reached under his helmet to scratch his head. It felt like he'd spent his entire life in this barn, guarding one measly Amerikaner.

"(Hans, can I smoke a cigarette?)"

No answer came, and Strauss tried not to whine.

"(He's just staring at you to make you nervous)"

That got a response. Hans Gunter turned and stared at him like he was something he'd had to scrape off his boot.

"(I'll remember that when he slides a bayonet between your ribs, idiot.)"

Gunter turned back to the American. He was tired and bored, too, but there was something about this French-American mutt. He was dangerous and Gunter knew it. He glanced over at his partner and his eyes narrowed contemptuously. If the prisoner did try something, maybe he could throw Strauss at him. Then at least he'd be good for something. He turned back to stare at the POW. Gunter _was_ sick of the American. He never took his eyes off them. The German took a step forward and shouted at him.

"_Was guckst du, Hund_?"

Between body language and circumstance, some things didn't need translated.

Caje stared at him, unblinking. "_Je regarde à un homme mort, cochon_." _His_ body language didn't need translated, either.

Gunter snarled like a rabid dog and started forward. He was sliding his bayonet from its sheath when there was suddenly a thump at the barn's side door, and both him and Strauss jumped. The knob turned, and a man started to push through.

Churchill could have walked in and it wouldn't have mattered. The moment both Krauts turned their attention to the door, Caje was up and moving.

Gunter jerked back when the door swung in and he yanked up the Schmeisser, wary. It was probably just Schröder with their relief, but the Amerikaner were friggin' _everywhere_ tonight, and he stepped back and took out the slack on the SMG's trigger.

"_Wer ist da_!" He shouted.

The man pushing through the door bellowed from beneath his helmet, and Gunter realized it wasn't one man but two, one in a US Army field jacket, draped over Schröder's shoulder.

"_Helfen, Dummkopf!_"

Gunter lowered his weapon and had moved forward to help his sergeant with Hauptmann Ehrlich's latest broken toy when the head under the German helmet raised up, and the man who wasn't Schröder rammed a bayonet between the fourth and fifth ribs on Gunter's left side. His gun thudded to the dirt floor, but he didn't hear it.

Barely slowing, Hanley jerked the blade free and continued his rush into the room, pivoting, seeking the second guard. He'd kept Schröder's corpse over his shoulder in case he needed a shield, but now he froze in his assault and let it slide quietly to the ground. The Schmeisser he'd pulled from under his arm lowered until it pointed at the floor.

Hanley stood silently and watched as Caje wiped the blood from Strauss' bayonet onto Strauss' jacket. The Cajun raised his head from where he crouched and looked at Hanley and smiled, his eyes black and fathomless, and the lieutenant actually fought down a shiver before trying to return the smile and failing. "I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I am so glad you're on our side."

Caje nodded and gestured at the bloody bayonet now in Hanley's left hand. "You too, sir." He quickly checked through Strauss' gear, taking what they could use and moving on to do the same with Gunter.

Hanley went to the door and opened it just enough to be able to watch the house. He looked back. "Hurry."

Caje pulled magazines for the Schmeissers from Gunter's belt and checked for grenades, speaking without looking up. "The Sarge is dead, isn't he?"

Hanley turned. "What?"

"Saunders. He's dead, isn't he, sir?"

Hanley swallowed convulsively and looked back out into the rain, and Caje's heart dropped into his stomach. The lieutenant turned back and realized what he'd done.

"He's alive, Caje, but they worked him over, real bad." He jerked his head toward the door. "C'mon, we've gotta get into that house."

Caje gestured at Gunter's uniform. "What about Plan A, twice?"

Hanley shook his head. "No time. Besides, there's too many in there. I don't think I saw more than eight or so, not counting these guys, but there could have been some in other rooms."

Hanley dropped the mag from the Schmeisser, checked it, and rammed it back in. This was going to be hairy. "Our only chance is if we can get some grenades in. I'll take the front, you take the back. I'll give you…"

He went to check his watch, before realizing they'd both lost them when they'd been captured. It didn't matter. He'd worked with Caje more than long enough to develop a rhythm with him, almost as instinctive as the one he had with Saunders. That happened when you fought alongside a man, fought for your life. It happened or someone died.

"…maybe three minutes to get into position. Try for this end of the house, and I'll go for the far end, but we can't be fussy. Get what you can. There's a back door, and be careful of the windows, especially that big one out front. They could maybe jump out of that one."

Caje handed him extra magazines and one of Strauss' grenades and they crept out into the wet dark, each with an SMG held ready. Caje leaned close. "Where's the Sarge if he's not still in the house?"

Hanley pointed at the copse. "I hid him back there." He hesitated.

"Lieutenant, I'll watch the house while you carry him in."

"Caje…"

"Sir, it's freezing out—"

"Don't you think I know that?!" Hanley's hushed voice almost broke. "There's just the two of us, Caje! If we can't keep them in that house, they could get in here! He'd be—"

"They will not get in," Caje interrupted uncharacteristically, his normally mild accent thick with stress. "I won't let them!"

Hanley wanted to scream. Of course he agreed with him—it had been him, not Caje, who'd been forced to turn away and leave—but the few minutes it had taken to secure the barn already seemed like hours. This was ridiculous! They had to MOVE!

As if in reply, the wind shifted and blew rain into his face, rain so cold it burned like fire. Hanley growled out loud and gave in, not to Caje but himself. "Alright!" He grabbed a fistful of the Cajun's jacket and dragged him along a few feet. "You watch, Caje! If they get into the woods we don't have a chance."

Hanley bent low and ran, watching the front door. He made it about halfway to the copse when it all became moot. At that moment, the door of the house opened and three Krauts stepped out onto the porch. The flickering lanterns hanging by the door didn't give off much light, but it was enough. They exploded into motion.

Hanley went to one knee and opened up, a priceless instant before they did. Two on the porch went down right away while the third dropped to the planks and kept firing.

Caje immediately broke for the rear of the house at a dead run. He tensed uselessly when he dashed behind his lieutenant, fully expecting to catch one of the rounds missing the crouched officer. Hanley threw himself down behind what looked like a scrap of dropped firewood and bellowed needlessly at Caje. "Go! GO!"

The third Kraut on the porch was scrabbling for the doorknob when Hanley took careful aim and dropped him with a short burst, just as the door jerked open again. Germans started pouring out the narrow opening like hornets. They ran into a hail of lead as Hanley finished the last spray of cover fire for Caje. The smarter Krauts stayed on the floor in the doorway and fired blindly in his direction. The opening sparkled with the twinkling of gunfire.

Hanley heard a round snap past his left ear, and another burned a path along the back of his right hand. The tinkling of glass from a rifle butt shattering one of the smaller front windows came to him and he ran for the corner of the house.

He heard a Schmeisser open up somewhere in the back yard; a short burst, then a long one, then suddenly it sounded like Omaha Beach all over again. The darkness all around the house was lit by the eerie lights of muzzle flashes, illuminating air thick with bullets and cold rain.

Hanley despaired. It would only take a couple grenades to end this, but at this rate they wouldn't even be able to reload. And he had to get away from this corner!

On the heels of that thought, several things happened almost at once. A Kraut broke from the door and leapt from the porch. Hanley fired and the German jerked and fell, at the same time another one flung himself clear of the steps and hit the ground, rolling to a crouch.

Hanley reflexively stepped out as he tracked him and pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. The gun was empty. He looked over the gunsight at a Mauser seemingly pointed right at his face and threw himself onto his back, scrabbling desperately for another magazine. He gave up on that and started to claw his way up to make for the side of the house but was too late.

Backlit by the weak lantern light, a shapeless figure rose from its knees and slowly stalked up to stand over him in the dark, silent and menacing. It didn't say anything; there were no expressions of revenge or triumph, just the very soft clatter of a rifle being aimed. Hanley imagined he could hear the trigger being squeezed. He closed his eyes.

Suddenly a loud shout came from somewhere near the back of the house, and both American and German turned reflexively. _"Grenade!_" Caje bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Maybe it was the half-second the language barrier imposed, as any experienced soldier from either side could deduce the meaning given the circumstances, but Gil Hanley twisted to bury his face in the ground, a heart-stopping moment before the large window beside them both exploded out in a deafening blast of shrapnel as the potato masher Caje had thrown deeply into the house through a back window detonated.

Glass and blood showered the lieutenant. In an act of sheer will, he forced himself to stagger to his feet when all he really wanted to do was dig himself deeper into the cold dirt. He jumped over the shredded body of his would-be killer and ran in a crouch past the now quiet door to the far window, almost startled to realize he was already holding a German grenade in his hand. He twisted the base and armed it, yelling a warning as loud as he could before he hurled it through the cracked glass. He dropped to the ground and covered his head, as the building shook.

The sudden silence was almost painful. Hanley again fought his way to his feet, instinct and habit alone sending him running for the door. On the way he pulled a mag for the Schmeisser from a pocket of the German field jacket he still wore and reloaded, sparing a quick wish that he'd had time to take it off.

The lieutenant briefly thought to announce he was entering the house, but just as quickly discarded it. Everyone that mattered was already on the same page. He kicked the half-open door in and leaped through, trying to look everywhere at once.

What met Hanley's eyes didn't faze him; he couldn't let it and hadn't for a very long time. It wasn't even the awful smell; human beings ripped to pieces, organs never meant to to be exposed torn and releasing their distinctive odors. What did was the unimaginable fear.

A thick haze of cordite and plaster dust swirled in the dense air, simulating movement and obscuring things, things Hanley's life depended on him seeing. There could be living men here in this obscene fog; men who meant to kill him. And somewhere in all of this was another American, armed and facing the same terrifying obstacles. At least this time, there was only one.

Hanley finished his sweep and called out tightly in a voice designed not to startle. "Hanley, front room, clear."

Caje called out from behind a wall right in front of him. "Caje, here." He stepped out. "Clear so far, Lieutenant," he said quietly.

Hanley gestured soundlessly with the SMG toward the south end of the house, and the private turned and slid silently through the gloam. Hanley cautiously headed for the north-end rooms, tuning out the sound of Caje kicking in doors while he focused his senses forward and kicked in his own.

After a couple tense minutes of finding nothing but a few more corpses, Hanley met him back in the central area. Having fewer rooms to check, the Cajun had already made another circuit of the great room and was now quickly pawing through a pile of equipment on a table.

"All clear, Lieutenant," he said needlessly. As he had been doing for the last minute or so, Caje paused and scanned the area, paying special attention to the north-east corner of the large kitchen. He finished his quick perusal, grabbing up several pieces of gear, while Hanley glanced around the huge room. The smoke had settled slightly, and the few lanterns that had survived the grenades cast a comparatively reasonable level of light.

"Is that captain here, Caje? Did we get that bastard?" Hanley the officer hoped the German was alive and could be turned over to S2, Hanley the man hoped he was dead and currently surveying his eternal accommodations.

"He's not here, Lieutenant."

"What?" Hanley took a step forward. "Are you sure?"

"If you didn't see him on your side, Lieutenant, he's not here. I checked everyone." Caje pointed toward the corner of the kitchen he'd been watching. "There's a door over there, probably a cellar, or a pantry." He smiled grimly. "I think he's in there."

Hanley's lips thinned in disgust. Just what he'd expect of a coward and a bully. Typical S.S. Beating a man whose hands were tied behind his back was no problem, but put them in the line of fire and see how fast they crawled. Caje was looking hopefully at the front door now and Hanley shook his head. He knew better than to make these kinds of assumptions. That's what got men killed. His men. They needed to check again.

Still, Hanley wavered, his heart screaming at him. Since he'd entered the house, it had been all he could do to not run back outside into the cold rain and darkness as fast as he could. He drew a deep breath, suddenly wishing he could just lash out and break something, rage against the awful unfairness of it all. If Saunders lived, though, he wouldn't thank Hanley for letting Caje get shot because he was flushing out a questionable dwelling, alone.

Hanley stepped forward, looking at the door in the kitchen. "Check the house again. Closets, bureaus, everything. We could have missed him." He turned to the private. "Go on. I've got the cellar door."

Caje was just as desperate, though. The few minutes they had been in here felt like hours when his squad leader and close friend was outside, suffering.

"Sir, hear me out. That door opens outward, I think, and I can drag that hutch in front of it, that one right there," he pointed. "I think it's very heavy, and then I can check the house again, no problem."

He turned to look at his lieutenant, whose face suddenly lit up in a wicked smile.

"I've got a better idea, and it'll only take a moment." Hanley reached for the nearest corpse and seized it by the back of its jacket, dragging it to stand before the cellar door. He motioned with his head at Caje. "Go ahead, open it. And stay out of the line of fire."

Caje grinned and stepped behind the door. He reached out and yanked it open, watching as Hanley easily lifted the corpse by its jacket and belt and bodily hurled it down the steps. Neither was surprised when a frantic smattering of pistol fire came from below.

Caje slammed the door shut as Hanley backed a few steps away and crossed over, stepping behind him to reach for the hutch. "Come on." They both shoved the heavy, antique cabinet in place. Hanley then hurried over to the pile of weapons and gear Caje had gone through earlier and quickly pawed through it.

Caje stepped forward. "Don't take the Thompson."

Hanley didn't look up. In another setting he might have laughed. "You think I don't know how he is? I want something smaller, anyway." He lifted his head when Caje nudged him.

The private reached behind himself and brought around the Colt .45 he'd tucked against the small of his back and offered it to Hanley, who looked down at it. It was probably Saunders' own sidearm, maybe the one that had been held to the sergeant's head, forever ago.

"I've got this, Lieutenant. Just… get him?"

Hanley reached out for the semi-automatic and set the bulky Schmeisser down. It was just what he was looking for; he'd need his hands free. "Check again anyhow, but be careful. Saunders would have my hide, officer or no."

Then he bolted for the door.

Caje stood for a moment, slightly surprised that his plea had worked. He picked up the Schmeisser and started his search, reflecting again on how quickly Hanley had capitulated as he did.

He stopped and moaned out loud. Oh, Lord. What was he thinking? Hanley was a good officer and quite frankly, an excellent soldier. But he'd been with the Sarge last. That was why, Caje realized. Saunders was just that bad off. Caje rushed through the house loaded for bear, looking carefully for hiding Germans, just like his sergeant had taught him. That he also looked for blankets and first aid supplies was incidental.

He was dragging a large quilt into the great room when the front door was kicked in.

* * *

Hanley ran out into the rain and whimpered out loud in reflex. It was just frigging freezing! He groaned through his teeth in pity and dread. _You failed him, __**again**__. You __**always**__ fail him, he's dead._ The mantra started whispering in his mind against his will, before he even reached the copse.

_he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead_

And he was. He was dead. Hanley was sure of it. He sat for a minute and looked at his sergeant. In the entire time he'd been gone, Saunders hadn't moved at all. He didn't move now. No shivering, no breathing he could see, nothing.

Hanley exhaled out a long breath, as though his body didn't know what else to do with itself. He reached a trembling hand out and brushed a few of the cold, brown leaves off the sergeant, then suddenly his breathing hitched and he started clawing the dead leaves away.

After a flurry of wet detritus, the wind and rain and Hanley looked in at a quiet, still form. "Back off," Hanley muttered lowly to them, almost delirious with exhaustion and raw grief. He reached in and gently gathered Saunders into his arms and staggered to his feet. "Back off."

The lieutenant stepped toward the house, fatigue blurring his thoughts. He looked at Saunders, wondering what he was going to tell his family. He'd carried dead men before, and was sure he carried one now.

_He's so heavy_, Hanley thought. Heavier than before. But that's how it was with dead people. Hanley never could understand how you could remove _so much_, all the hopes and dreams and the unmeasurable things that made up a person, and yet they got heavier when they died. How was that?

He was so sure…

But he hadn't checked for a pulse. He didn't know, now. He didn't know for sure. Maybe he was just desperate. And tired. Gosh, he was so tired. He mounted the steps to the porch and kicked in the door.

* * *

_It might be at least a week before I can post again. I'll try very hard to do it as soon as possible._


	15. Chapter 15

Hi guys. I've agonized for days over what I was gonna write here, and I can only fall back on that old refrain: I'm sorry. I should just have that tattooed on my forehead; it seems to precede just about any dealings I have with other human beings anyway.

I had a bad time of it for a little while and when I was ready to start writing again, I ran into a solid wall of writer's block. How stupid is that? I am sorry, though, and I'm grateful for the unbelievable number of reviews, every single one of them, and regret terribly any concern I caused anybody. *Warm smile* I am touched and very thankful for the concern, though. Thank you so much, all of you.

I had a lot of trouble with this chapter and I'm still not real happy with it, but I forced myself to stop picking at it. I think what… **_ten weeks_** is long enough to wait for a post?! Gosh, I'm sorry. The next chap is half-finished and will be posted in less than a week.

Thank you Éclaireur for your support, for previewing this problem-child chapter, and for trying to gently kick me back into play. My personal version of bad-boy Caje is dedicated to you. *snicker*

Hope this isn't too boring, I took some risks as to that regard. Oh, yeah, warnings. Same stuff. Everyone remembers how I didn't pull any punches in the very beginning? About how I warned this story is a 'high-octane H/C slopfest'? Okay then…

* * *

_Caje rushed through the house loaded for bear, looking carefully for hiding Germans, just like his sergeant had taught him. That he also looked for blankets and first aid supplies was incidental._

_He was dragging a large quilt into the great room when the front door was kicked in._

* * *

_The lieutenant stepped toward the house, fatigue blurring his thoughts. He looked at Saunders, wondering what he was going to tell his family. He'd carried dead men before, and was sure he carried one now._

_But he hadn't checked for a pulse. He didn't know, now. He didn't know for sure. Maybe he was just desperate. And tired. Gosh, he was so tired. He mounted the steps to the porch and kicked in the door._

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Caje dropped the quilt and fell into a crouch, snapping the SMG into position before the front door had finished rebounding off the wall. His raw, exhausted reflexes twitched at the trigger and howled at his brain to fire, already convinced there was a horde of Germans battling their way in.

His mind was many dreadful months past being commandeered by his emotions, though, and he had known Hanley was going to be coming in at any second - probably violently - and after a couple stuttering heartbeats he stood down.

When he was fully able to see the apparition struggling its way through the dim light into the room, however, he suddenly wished it _had_ been a horde of Germans.

Hanley was clutching what Caje knew had to be Saunders, but what really only looked like an armful of wet rags. Caje took a defensive step back as his subconscious initially denied what he was seeing. One of Saunders' arms hung down, swaying loosely with the lieutenant's movements and trailing a short length of rope that dripped pink water onto the floor. _He's dead? _

_Il est mort. Non, il est mort, après tout cela? _LeMay blinked like he'd been slapped and looked at Hanley's pale face. "Lieutenant?" he whispered anxiously.

Hanley shook his head grimly, his expression closed, belying it with his next statement. He was shivering so hard his teeth clattered. "I d-don't know."

Caje snapped out of his stupor and snatched up the quilt he'd dropped, rushing to spread it out in front of the cooled fireplace.

Hanley dropped tiredly to his knees and settled his silent, curled burden onto the quilt. He laid a cold, wet hand alongside Saunders' throat, pausing for an eternity while Caje went out of his mind, before shaking his head again. "Can't feel… my f-fingers are too c-cold, I can't feel anything." He bent down and carefully rested his head on the sergeant's chest.

LeMay mentally growled impatiently and reached for one of Saunders' wrists to check for himself, before halting in dismay.

Hanley sighed and sat back. "He's alive." He looked over at where Caje was already holding one of Saunders' arms in one hand, bringing out a bayonet with the other while swearing vigorously under his breath in several languages.

"Forget about that for now," Hanley said tightly, pulling out his own confiscated knife. He started carefully cutting the icy, sodden remains of Saunders' shirts off him. "Get that fire going."

"But Lieutenant!" Caje protested, holding up one limp, purple hand. "Look—"

"Get that fire going!" Hanley nearly shouted, before sighing shortly and pausing his frantic efforts for a few seconds to look at the private, his fleeting gaze intense.

"Caje, _look_ at him. He's _blue_. He was in shock before I even carried him out of the house and now he's hypothermic, so far gone he's not even shivering." He bent his head back to his task, speaking to the Cajun's back now as the private had surged to his feet and started working on stoking the dim coals back to life. "We don't get him warm and dry and he's…his hands aren't gonna matter."

The weight of the bleakness pressed at Caje as he pulled small pieces of wood from the stack alongside the fireplace, arranging them carefully around the weak flame he'd coaxed. Hanley spoke again a minute or so later and LeMay half-turned to listen, watching as the officer breathed out in thin clouds of white, his soft words doing nothing to break the brittle silence. "When you're finished with that, give me a hand here."

The Cajun spun and jabbed hurriedly at the growing fire with a thick piece of wood, before throwing it and several more in and turning back to drop anxiously to his knees.

"Here, lift him a little…" Caje went to slide both hands under Saunders' shoulders when Hanley stopped him. "No, not there, here, by his arm… okay, hold on, watch his ribs… wait… okay, hold him there a second."

LeMay held him up on one side just high enough for Hanley to gently pull the material out from underneath him. Caje dragged his furious gaze away from Saunders' bruised, gray-white face and frighteningly blue lips, suddenly distracted by the level of care Hanley was taking in peeling the rags from beneath the sergeant's back.

Caje narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with his back?"

Hanley didn't answer, turning instead to toss the discarded clothing into the corner. "Okay, let him down."

Caje had fought in this war long enough, seen enough, to have a miserable but entirely probable idea of what was wrong with his back. He kept his touch gentle as he settled his sergeant back to the blanket but the anger gnawed at him, and needing to know for sure he started to ask again.

"Lieutenant, what's wrong with…" he paused when Hanley leaned back out of the light and they both sat quietly for a couple seconds looking at Saunders' bared torso. It looked like he'd fallen under a halftrack. Hanley sighed. "Alright, come on already," he said, and Caje had to wonder who he thought he was really talking to. "You've seen guys beat up before. Let's go."

They worked in silence for several minutes, pulling Saunders' boots off and stripping him to his shorts. Hanley wrapped the quilt around him before lifting the sergeant high enough to cradle him against his chest, trying to share whatever meager warmth he himself possessed.

The lieutenant shook his head, trying to fight off the hopelessness. If he hadn't heard the man's heartbeat himself, even now he'd swear he was long gone. It was like holding a big, dead mackerel—cold and damp, generating no heat of its own.

Now that he was still, Hanley was reminded of how fiercely his head still pounded. Suddenly bleary-eyed, he looked at where Caje was draping Saunders' trousers over a footstool close to the crackling fire and he blinked fuzzily, feeling like he was dreaming. They were sitting right in front of the fire but he couldn't feel its heat. It was as though the warmth struggled to leave the grate, pushed at by the cold and dark, by the evil and suffering and despair that seemed to permeate what was left of this house. He shook his head again and unconsciously tightened his hold.

He knew he was starting to shut down when Caje suddenly dropped down beside them and startled him badly. The dark-haired Cajun produced two canteens and a few kitchen towels he'd found and began ruffling one of the cloths through Saunders' wet, blond hair, careful of the various head injuries. "I think his color is a little better," he commented in his soft patois.

Setting the towel down after a minute, he started rubbing the non-com's arms and legs through the quilt in an effort to restore circulation and Hanley shook himself awake, angry with himself. He should have been doing that already.

He took over for Caje and motioned with his head toward the bayonet the private had set down nearby. "Go ahead and get that sh… those…" He breathed out. "Cut those ropes off him."

Hanley hiked Saunders up a little more and continued the careful massaging while he watched the Cajun. Not for the first time, he reflected on how a man so inherently _dangerous_ could be so honestly gentle. How many times had he seen him, tenderly stroking the hair of a crying child, or softly brushing the backs of his fingers down the face of a fellow GI, holding him as he died?

And yet Hanley had seen those same hands; the long, delicate fingers of a classical pianist or maybe a surgeon, wrapped firmly around the handle of a bayonet silently shoved to the hilt into an unsuspecting sentry, or confidently balled into rock-hard fists in hand-to-hand combat.

He was so gentle, so very careful as he peeled away the last of the rope and flung it away, only someone that knew him as well as Hanley did could see the black outrage that boiled just beneath the surface.

That was just how he was. He was like a glassy pond inhabited by alligators—quiet and calm on the outside, but frought with the potential for sudden, efficient, _lethal_ violence.

If Hanley was ever pressed for his opinion he'd have to say Saunders was probably the deadliest man he'd ever met—sheer statistics bore that out—but Caje was _easily_ the most frightening, hands down.

Sometimes the Cajun seemed almost distant, as though he were only the dutiful avatar of someone living fully somewhere very far away, but Hanley knew he was staunchly loyal and protective to those he cared about. Saunders and Kirby especially, and among a lucky other few, Hanley himself.

Caje critically inspected both wrists for a long minute, before setting them down and reaching for one of the canteens. He cleaned the deep gouges carefully, then cut a second towel into strips and loosely bound the wounds. He pulled the edges of the quilt aside just enough to survey Saunders' midsection, before quietly replacing the cover and suddenly heaving himself to his feet. He paced to the broken front door and looked out and Hanley watched him go, glad for his distraction but moreso for the security.

The lieutenant sighed and freed one hand long enough to rub briefly at his aching eyes. Even above all this, at the back of Hanley's mind the awareness of how precarious their position still was clamored at him constantly. This lodge was an S.S. post. He hadn't forgotten the force that had been split and sent off to other purposes—weather not withstanding, this was still their home base.

As frustrated as Hanley was at the storm that kept them from getting Saunders to the help he needed so badly, he also knew it was probably the only thing keeping them all alive. It was frustratingly ironic.

Their lines should be close enough that Hanley would consider packing the sergeant up and leaving now, being fairly sure he and Caje could survive the trip, but for the absolute certainty Saunders would not. Thanks to the very conditions that had caused them so much grief, they were all now getting by by the slimmest of margins. He sighed again. Situation normal, then.

Caje ghosted past, heading toward the back door. Hanley decided he'd stalled as long as he could and checked Saunders over a little better; the light from the fire being about as good as it was going to get.

His color _was_ a little better, and he seemed to be resting peacefully enough, for now. Hanley tilted his head slightly to one side to check the worst of the damage to his face and pulled in a deep breath. He thought maybe that eye was okay, just badly swollen shut and he didn't think his jaw was broken, but gosh, what a mess he was.

It was a different story with his ribs. Hanley was almost positive several of them were fractured or broken without having to poke at them, having been on the end of that barbaric technique himself, but the important thing was that there was no rigidity to Saunders' stomach or abdomen, no bloody froth from his mouth or nose. In the event he was bleeding internally, it was a slow bleed.

Frankly, Hanley was more concerned with what had to be critical dehydration by now. The S.S. were not known for hydrating their prisoners. If anything they'd probably made a show of drinking right in front of him. Bastards.

There wasn't anything they could do about that until he woke up, though, and Hanley swallowed down the unproductive hate and continued the field exam.

The sergeant's heartrate and breathing were still way too fast but were otherwise steady, and as an afterthought Hanley took a peek under the bandaging on his wrists. He could understand why Caje had been so upset; they looked bad, really bad. His hands were already regaining some normal color, though, and knowing there wasn't much he could do for them one way or another, Hanley rolled him carefully to his side, trying to assess his back.

He was so focused in trying to see things he didn't want to see he didn't know Caje had returned until the private spoke. "It's quiet so far, Lieutenant. This storm… it's keeping them away for now… it's still raining, though…" he trailed off.

Hanley grunted and re-settled Saunders back into the crook of his right arm. "Just as well, I guess." He wearily rubbed again at his gritty eyes with his left hand for a few moments before dropping it and looking back down at Saunders. "This _stinking _rain. We need to _leave_." He leaned his head back then and closed his eyes, flexing his neck with a soft grunt of pain. "I suppose if nothing else it washed the salt off, at least."

Caje canted his head slightly to one side, his eyes very black. "Salt?"

Hanley opened his own eyes and grimaced in irritation. He wasn't going to play this game anymore, at least not right now. He was too tired, too worried about Saunders, about Caje and himself, about the weather and the Germans and the war in general to expend energy keeping Caje from killing a man that Hanley himself wanted to throttle so badly he could _taste_ it.

He reflected on his idle thoughts of only a few minutes ago. Yes, Caje was a good soldier, one of the best. If the brass realized how good, he'd have had his own squad a long time ago, something Hanley knew he didn't want.

No, he wasn't given to open disobedience, quite the contrary. After the atrocities of the day, though, Hanley wasn't sure he'd be able to rein him in. He _was_ sure he didn't want to. Why would he? Because it was _right?_ So what? Seriously, so friggin' what?

Hanley looked up at the Cajun's dark visage and for an absurd moment thought about how grateful he was that Kirby wasn't here, too.

Kirby wouldn't care about orders or S2 or the big picture. He'd take one look at Saunders and stride over to the basement door, fling it open, and pour several pounds of high-velocity heat down into the cellar as casually as he would checking his mailbox. He'd probably walk back to Hanley then and simply hold his hands out, waiting to be arrested. For one happy moment, Hanley lived vicariously through Kirby and his vengeful phantom.

The lieutenant shook himself back to the here and now. He'd seen Kirby stand miserably at attention before a furious, snarling, _disappointed_ Saunders enough times; had seen not the defiance of an unrepetant soldier on Kirby's face but the crushed look of a man who had failed someone whose opinion of him actually meant something, to understand that if _he_ couldn't stop Caje, he did know who could.

"Here, c'mon and take him for a minute, I can't feel my legs."

Caje looked back toward the cellar door before dropping to kneel hesitantly in front of them. "Lieutenant, what did you mean about…" He stopped at the look on the officer's face.

Hanley stirred in annoyance and gently lifted Saunders a little. "I am… getting tired of having to say everything twice, Caje. Take him. We've gotta try and keep him warm."

Caje obediently slid carefully beneath Saunders and gathered him up. The sergeant chose that moment to shudder slightly and Caje momentarily forgot about Germans. He looked up at Hanley. "I think he moved a little, Lieutenant."

Hanley bit back a groan as he stood and stretched his numb, aching limbs. "Good. He starts shivering like the rest of us and I'll be a happy man." He looked at one of the canteens and eased himself back down to floor level to question his scout. "How much were you able to check out?" he asked, jerking his head toward the main body of the house. "Is this the only water?"

Caje shook his head. "No, sir, I don't think so. I just grabbed what was right around us. From what I recall, most of these guys still had their canteens, and I would think the well should be okay…"

Hanley nodded and set the heaviest canteen aside for Saunders before holding the other one out to Caje. "Here. Drink this now, I think there's plenty."

Caje raised his head to look uncaringly past the precious water and into Hanley's eyes. "Sir, what did you mean about the salt?"

Hanley sat the canteen down without breaking eye contact. "They whipped him, Caje," he said, his deep baritone unnaturally calm. "Then threw a bucket of saltwater on him."

Hanley watched as Caje's entire body jerked slightly, no doubt mentally throwing himself to his feet. Saunders' breathing hitched a little and Caje became completely, impossibly still. He still looked at Hanley and the lieutenant felt the short hairs stand up at the blank expression in the Cajun's amber eyes. It was like looking into the empty stare of a shark. Caje glanced over at the cellar door before turning his head back to Hanley, his gaze unchanged.

_He wasn't even there for the screaming,_ Hanley thought bleakly. The memory easily overwhelmed his exhausted defenses and it was several moments before the lieutenant realized the private had spoken to him. "What?"

"Who did this?"

Hanley didn't even notice the interrogative tone. Right now, for these scant seconds, they weren't superior and subordinate but two guardians; two soldiers on sentry duty. Two angry and dangerous men.

"Ehrlich mostly, I think, and his sergeant."

Caje already knew where Ehrlich was and inwardly smiled. "_Et le sergent. Où est-il?"_ He shook his head impatiently. "The sergeant. Where is he? I did not see him here."

Hanley had understood the French, and even if he hadn't he would've known what he'd asked. He opened his mouth to respond before the Cajun had even finished translating. "I killed him, outside. As he was escorting us to the barn."

Almost trembling with rage, Caje looked down at Saunders again before he spoke, not caring how it sounded. "I hope it hurt."

Revenge savored cut new, unfortunate pathways through Hanley's brain and into his face as he smiled, himself. "Pretty sure it did."

For long seconds there was only the sound of the snap and crackle of the fire. Hanley felt inertia creeping back over him and struggled to his feet. He wandered around until he found a corpse in possession of a canteen it didn't need anymore and tugged it free.

He'd just finished emptying it when Caje made a slight sound, looking down at Saunders again. He glanced up at Hanley hopefully. "He moved again, Lieutenant! I think he's shivering a little…"

Within a few minutes there was no question whether or not the sergeant was shivering. By then he was trembling so hard that for several dreadful seconds Hanley thought he was seizing. Saunders moaned raggedly and Caje pulled him closer, speaking to him softly in a warm blend of English and French. Hanley watched for a moment, before turning to pull more wood from the pile to add to the fire.

* * *

Cold was the first thing he registered, cold like he'd never known. It gnawed deeply into his bones and he whimpered before he could stop himself. Minutes passed, or maybe days, he couldn't tell, but it was long enough for him to think that this was the most miserable he could possibly be.

And then the pain started. He jerked with the suddenness of it and opened his eyes, reflexively seeking _any_ other stimuli.

It was a long time he stared into the haze of the far distance, aware on a primal level he wasn't alone, and just as instinctively knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

After a bit he shifted his gaze to look at where a blurry figure was staring down at him and he squinted in an effort to concentrate. "Who are you?" The man's face was slow to come into focus and the injured soldier called out again, suddenly confused and frightened. "Who are you?!"

He was struggling to move in a hopeless attempt to defend himself when his vision cleared and he stilled abruptly. "What… what are you doing here?! Oh… oh no, Darrell, why are you in France?"

Darrell Kalgren gazed down at his younger brother. "I sure as heck ain't chasin' you 'round France, Tommy." The specter looked away, its green eyes glinting in the fading light, and made a weak motion toward its own leg. "Ya know they wouldn't take me with this."

Private Thomas Kalgren quickly gave up trying to orient himself in a situation that couldn't possibly exist, and instead looked briefly at his brother's leg, swallowing tightly. It was a sore thing with Darrell, one even his brother never, _ever_ teased him about. When tractors went up against humans, against soft tissue and joints and their little, frail bones, the tractor won every time.

"But what are you… why are you here?" Another thought occurred to Tom and his eyes stung. "Darrell, are you… are you d-dead?"

Darrell looked down at him again and his expression softened in that way that always put Tom at ease. "No, an' neither are you. You're gonna be though, if ya don't get up."

Tom closed his eyes and suppressed a sob, shaking his head tremulously. "I can't, Darrell. I'm so tired, and I'm cold… I'm so cold…"

"You've got to. It'll be dark soon, an' then ya won't have a prayer. Not with this storm comin' on. Come on, Tommy, get up. Let's go."

Tom's eyes flew open and he lifted his head, tears still tracking down the sides of his face and into his hair. "You're not listenin', as usual! I can't… I can't do it. You don't know, I-I got up twice already an' I keep fallin'…" he sobbed. "… an' I hurt, I hurt so badly…"

"I know you do." Darrell Kalgren's eyes glistened, unnaturally bright. "An' I know you can do this. I _know_ you can get up."

Tom stared deeply into his eyes. Any other time he might have been curious but right now he was just desperate, more desperate than he'd ever been in his entire, short life. "How do you…" he drew a great, shuddering breath. "How can you know _anything_?" He chuffed bitterly. "You're not even here."

Darrell smiled. "Two things. I know _you_, Tommy. You're not gonna die here, in some stupid, weird place a million miles away. Not if you can help it."

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, still crying silently, before reopening them to look at his best friend and primary antagonist. "An' the second thing?"

Darrell started the little, nervous routine he always did when he was embarrassed, reaching up to scratch his right ear, run a hand through his hair, and rub at the back of his neck. _That_ his brother never let him live down.

"It was the same thing I said to Dad, the day he made me take you hunting with me, the day you got your first deer."

Tom wrinkled his brow in thought. He had an excellent memory and he rifled through it now. "'Oh, Dad, do I gotta?'"

Darrell smirked. "No, that was before we left. When we finally got back, got back to stay…" The smile dropped and his expression became serious. "I told him you were as good as anybody I ever saw in the woods, and that you have an unbelievable sense of direction. I told him we could drop you by parachute into Montana at three in the morning in a pea-soup fog and you could find your way home."

"He…'e didn't go f-for it though, huh?"

"Get up, Tommy."

Thomas Kalgren smiled and closed his eyes. He remembered that day like it was best one he'd ever lived, because it was.

"Tom, please, _please_ get up."

He'd done so well on that chilly afternoon, or at least it seemed that way for awhile. He couldn't believe it. It was an eight-point buck! He'd watched it crash to the ground and his chest had swelled with pride and accomplishment. Hard winter was coming on, and this kill would go a long way. That was the exact moment his already-stored venison had lurched to its feet and took off.

They'd given chase for awhile, right up until he'd stepped into a gopher hole and twisted his ankle. It was then he decided he didn't really care for hunting, unless it was for gophers. He'd turned after that and started hobbling unerringly back in the direction of the farm.

He knew without looking Darrell was giving him that irritating, sideways squint. "Well, where are ya goin', Gimpus? He went that way," he said, pointing.

Tommy waved his hand at the forest without turning. "You can have him."

"What?! You know Dad's not gonna let…" Tommy tuned out Darrell's indignant sputtering and, after resettling the weight of the Springfield against his shoulder, kept walking.

The crunching of his slightly uneven footsteps sounded loud in the early winter stillness. He couldn't hear Darrell anywhere behind him but figured he was back there somewhere. He knew he wouldn't hear him until he was close anyway; for a big guy with a bum hip, his brother could move quieter than anyone he knew—a skill he delighted in using against his only sibling at every opportunity.

Tommy sighed. Luck was with him - for once - and they'd been on their way back when he'd spotted the buck, so it wasn't too long before he broke from the woods into the south-side pasture. It was a short trip from there to the road that ran from their farm to Roger's and Tommy sighed again in relief as he started down the graded, hard-packed dirt track.

His relief was cut short at the sight of the battered Ford pickup that came into view a short time later, moving in his direction. His father was probably heading out to repair the long section of fence knocked down when the Kaiser tree came down Thursday; a job he might have tackled at any time today but typically enough, he'd chosen now.

Tommy took a deep breath and kept walking, his limp suddenly becoming more pronounced. His guess was proven correct when he saw the chainsaw in the Ford's bed when it pulled just past him and stopped. His father got out and walked around the truck, eyeballing his younger son as he did so.

"Thomas?" he said evenly, canting his head slightly. _It's _Thomas_ already?_ Tommy whined privately – very privately - to himself.

"What happened? Y'okay?" John Kalgren asked, nodding at the suspect leg. Tommy gave him the condensed version, turning slightly as he finished his tale of woe to find Darrell standing so close their coats were brushing together. He jumped appropriately and Darrell smirked at him.

"Does it hurt bad?" their father interrupted and Tommy shrugged, his pain struggling against his manliness. "Yes, sir… I mean… well, not TOO bad…"

His father nodded. "Hurt to walk on?"

Tommy shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I guess. Some."

The older man nodded again and looked into his son's eyes. It wasn't difficult, at thirteen the boy was almost as tall as he was. "Imagine you had to run on it, how bad would it hurt, then?" Tommy started to open his mouth but his father wasn't finished. "What if you were hurt here," he asked, thumping a gentle fist on the boy's lower chest. "… what if you had a really bad wound right here but you were so scared you had to keep running, no matter how bad it hurt?"

They all stood quietly for a few seconds, the clear, cold breeze ruffling their hair, before Tommy raised his head, his expression pained but serious. "That would be terrible, Dad." He nodded and looked back down for a moment, shifting the Springfield to his other shoulder out of habit. "I'll get him."

John Kalgren smiled briefly, his eyes glowing with pride and love. "I know you will, son. That's why I'm always tellin' you to pick your shots. It's not just 'cause we can't afford to waste ammo. No good man leaves a critter to take two days to die, lyin' in the woods somewhere."

Tommy handed the Springfield to Darrell and knelt down to tighten the laces of his boot, unaware of the byplay that went on over his head. His father had reached out to squeeze Darrell's shoulder affectionately. _You take care of him,_ John Kalgren's eyes said wordlessly.

_Who, that bum?_ Darrell's wry expression said silently. _Always_. _Wherever he goes._

Tommy stood up and his father gripped his shoulder, too. "An eight-pointer? Can't wait to see 'im, Tom. Come back after ya get him and we'll bring the truck close as we can." He looked at where his youngest was pulling the zipper of his coat as high as he could with one hand while reaching for his rifle with the other. "Your brother's been telling me for a long time what a good tracker you are," he said, ignoring Darrell's embarrassed snort. "I know you can do it."

_I know you can do it._ The wet, frigid air of a foreign land brushed harshly against his face and Private Thomas Kalgren opened his eyes wearily, already aware he was alone, aware he had been all along. It didn't have to be that way forever, though. Not for lack of trying, anyway.

_Please get up, Tommy._

He couldn't tell which of the fading voices belonged to his father or his brother or both, knowing only that it didn't matter. He wasn't going to let _this_ critter lie in the woods and suffer, anymore than he had the other one.

_I know you can do it. _

He wasn't sure he could, but he was going to try. He clawed himself painfully to his feet and stumbled toward where the last wisps of the lowering sun was slipping behind malignant, inky clouds, not to be seen again on this day.

He didn't know where _anything_ was, except that the United States was somewhere to the west and _Germany_ was to the east. An oversimplification almost any American back home would have laughed at, had they never been lost in a foreign country with a bullet in their side. As it was, that childish thought would be all that sustained him as it got colder and the wind rose, as he fell over and over again, as the light seeped away and the night moved in.

He was blissfully unaware towards the end. By that time there was no conscious thought, no fear, no pain even. By that time his body was going on without him, just a habit it couldn't seem to break. He never heard the startled rattle of weapons, the frightened hails or the language they were shouted in, never felt the arms that caught him when he fell for the last time.

* * *

Lieutenant Gil Hanley lowered his head, nearly panting with stress and exertion. The tiny, inconsequential voice in the back of mind that tried to remind him that _officers do not pant_ was summarily ignored. It was easy to do considering the grinding tension of the last few minutes, and the fact that Caje was hunched a few feet away, breathing just as hard.

It was difficult to believe he had spent the better part of the night wishing Saunders would wake up, only to spend the last ninety seconds or so hoping he would pass out again. He had, fairly quickly, but not before scaring his nurses.

It had not been a kind awakening. Saunders' initial moaning had promptly given way to a weak struggle to bring his swollen hands up, in what the lieutenant recognized as an attempt to defend himself.

Hanley and Caje had both fallen all over themselves then, trying to reassure him that he was with friends, that he was _finally_ **_safe_**, and when Saunders eventually opened his one good eye and blindly sought them out, the lieutenant thought for one foolish second he'd heard them.

Lacking recognition of any kind, a myriad of emotions passed through that bloodshot blue in those few seconds, before settling on one: extreme distress. Saunders made a sound deep in his throat, his already snow-white complexion going greenish-gray and Hanley quickly reached for him, tangling his hands with Caje's in their shared haste. "On his side, now, now, _now_…"

They rolled him off Caje's lap and onto his side just in time as he gagged and retched, one of the Cajun's arms still supporting him. The lack of water and food was glaringly evident when the brief moment of pained heaving produced nothing but a miniscule amount of bile.

He gave an agonized groan afterwards and started to curl, even then continuing to struggle against them, twisting to fight off the hands that only sought to care for him. It was the muted sounds of unmitigated suffering and _anger?_ that was getting to Hanley more than anything else. Finally Saunders brought an arm up and weakly tucked it against his chest in an apparent effort to protect his ribs, before he quietly relaxed and went still.

Several silent moments passed somberly by before Caje spoke. "Well, that didn't go well…" He looked around the room and shook his head slightly, as though he'd misplaced something, before turning back to Hanley. "Do you think that was just because of the concussion, or—"

"Yes," Hanley interrupted, hoping it was true even as he said it, assuming Caje meant the vomiting and not the fighting—the fighting was a given. He looked down at Saunders, his mind absently cataloguing the injuries, the echoes of distress still in his ears. "He… he didn't throw up any blood. I guess a room can only spin so many times before you… you know, even a… a tough guy gets…"

He felt a hand brush his shoulder in the briefest of touches and looked up at Caje, momentarily confused by the compassion on the scout's face, until he realized he'd faded out for a bit.

"It's not your fault, Lieutenant, you know that. He knew what he was doing. And I told you, he even said they were going to interrogate him anyway."

Hanley looked away and shook his head, irritated and touched at the same time that the Cajun had essentially read his mind. He worked his jaw and didn't say anything for a long time, before looking back down at his injured squad leader.

"Yes, Private, I do know that, thank you," he said and raised his head, his already deep voice rough with emotion. "But he wouldn't have been the center of attention for, oh, I don't know… _seven **hours**?!_"

His voice had risen to nearly a shout before he quieted suddenly, and when he spoke again Caje had to lean forward slightly to hear him. "I need him to recover from this, Caje, if he can, as much as possible." He took a deep breath then, speaking through his teeth. "Cuz I'm gonna peel strips from his _miserable_ hide and smile while I do it."

He sighed before blinking a couple times and he looked vaguely around the room, apparently also searching for whatever Caje had misplaced. "I would have liked to have gotten some water into him, but obviously, that wouldn't have—"

Hanley stopped short and held his breath. He thought he'd heard a sound he didn't recognize and he canted his head, waiting. It had been so very faint - just a minute scuffing sound, almost like a rat scratching at wood - that he was just about certain he'd imagined it until he glanced over at Caje.

The private was twisted at the waist, staring at the cellar door and that blankness, that awful blankness was back on his face. As Hanley watched Caje rose silently to his knees, the bayonet already clenched in his right hand; his left arm still trapped beneath Saunders. He smoothly pulled it free, only to drape that arm loosely over the sergeant.

The sound came again and they could both see clearly now as the knob for the cellar door turned ever so slowly, back and forth.

Caje made a noise under his breath that sounded like a short, incredulous laugh and had started to get to his feet when the lieutenant laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Not yet," he hissed.

Hanley turned and looked carefully at Saunders. He no longer had that dreadful, porcelain skin tone and his body had clearly started taking the steps necessary to help keep him warm; he shivered incessantly. He was stable, or at least as stable as they could get him. Hanley nodded to himself and turned back to where he still had a hand on Caje's shoulder, his voice quiet.

"We need more blankets. Go see what you can find, and build that fire up…" He peered around them to the large couch at their side and the other furniture. "Pull this stuff in closer, the couch and these other things. I want a friggin' _wall_ around this area." He looked over at the cellar door and smiled. "Then you and I are going to address this vermin problem. I'm sick of this, I want this house secured."

Caje grinned briefly before he stood, tucking the bayonet into his waistband and reaching for the gun he'd scrounged earlier and had almost forgotten about. He paused and looked back inquiringly when the lieutenant called to him again.

Hanley had scooted forward and taken Caje's place alongside Saunders, between the sergeant and the cellar door. The lieutenant brought the Colt .45 around and racked its slide back before settling it on one knee, looking up at the Cajun. "When you're done with all that grab a blanket or something and run outside, will you?" The grim smile he still had from a few seconds ago widened. "Get me some pinecones."


	16. Chapter 16

Hi Guys,

Ohmygosh, so embarrassing—I just watched "Cat and Mouse" the other night all the way to the end, which I haven't done for awhile, and realize now I made an obvious, glaring mistake in the tag story I wrote for that. *giggle* To any of you who read that story and caught the mistake- sorry! LOL. It's all in good fun.

Thank you everyone for an especially kind round of reviews, I wish I could mention everyone, they were so nice. Happy belated Birthday, Rosie!

This chapter's kind of short but I wanted to post something as soon as possible. The next chap might be pretty short also, but it's almost finished and I'll post it quickly.

Warnings for references to bad things, H/C, a lot of Angst and a little fluff.

Happy Fourth of July everybody! Be safe.

* * *

_Hanley had scooted forward and taken Caje's place alongside Saunders, between the sergeant and the cellar door. The lieutenant brought the Colt .45 around and settled it on one knee, looking up at the Cajun. "When you're done with all that grab a blanket or something and run outside, will you?" The grim smile he still had from a few seconds ago widened. "Get me some pinecones."_

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Caje scurried back into the house like he was being chased by wolves, his teeth clenched against the bitter cold. After a half-hearted kick to close the front door he slowed to a dead stop and watched the cellar door for long moments, before crossing the room and quietly lowering a small pile of wet pinecones onto the kitchen table. He shook the freezing water from his hair, then stepped over and wended his way through his haphazard wall of furniture to crouch near the fire. He sighed with relief. He had been so cold for so long he'd started overlooking it, like a broken finger or a flesh wound; just something else to be endured and ignored.

He had hit the blanket jackpot when he searched a little while ago—two small but thick comforters and a very soft child's blanket, along with another towel. They were even _clean_, hidden away in a wooden chest. He'd roughed it on his short foray out, though. There was no way he'd have ever allowed one to get wet using it himself when the sergeant needed them so badly. When they left here - hopefully soon - Saunders would need every bit of warmth available if he was going to survive the trip.

The non-com lay quietly on his side also near the fire, his hands curled and tucked in close. Caje reached over to carefully arrange the new collection of blankets before resting a brief, weightless hand on the blond head and sighing in soft anguish. This was so hard… so… **_wrong_** seeing him this way, this vulnerable; a man that absolutely _personified_ invulnerability.

Caje glanced up at where Hanley was standing nearby, staring at a spot between the cellar and front doors. He was bouncing the Colt off one hip restlessly, obviously thinking through what Caje fervently hoped was a plan to finally rid this place of its last Germanic presence; a final gift to it before LEAVING it.

The Cajun looked around for the child's blanket and was folding it up when his CO quietly called to him to get ready. "Be right there, Lieutenant."

Hanley looked around in approval. Caje had done well in these few minutes considering the scarcity of furniture, and the fire was well-fed, to the point they'd had to take Saunders by the edge of his quilt and slide him away from it a little. Hanley waited, watching while the private slid a hand under the sergeant's head and raised it enough to slip a small blanket beneath it. Caje didn't move for a few seconds and when he settled his weight completely to the floor Hanley stepped forward uneasily, until he was standing almost alongside.

"What is it?"

Caje looked to the side without turning, his voice sullen. "Probably the reason he couldn't hear us before. He's bleeding from his right ear, or he was."

Hanley asked the same stupid question everyone asks when they're scared. "Are you sure?"

Caje chuffed almost insolently and settled his shoulders, as though to give Hanley a better view of where he still had Saunders' head resting in one hand. "Yes, sir, I'm pretty sure this is blood."

The lieutenant ignored the fear-induced sarcasm and dropped down next to them. It was highly probable that he'd just caught a blow alongside his head and his eardrum was ruptured. Painful and irritating to be sure but, thanks mostly to artillery, very mundane. But suddenly everything else made sense—the fighting, the lack of recognition, the vomiting…

Hanley leaned back, thinking now about brain damage, about how when Ehrlich had had the pistol to Saunders' head and _surely_ the worst he could have done up to that point was to _kill_ _him_, and knew better. He knew better, and was more afraid for him now than when he thought he was dead.

Caje echoed his thoughts, his tone hollow. "I do not think this is just a concussion."

_You don't have time for this, Lieutenant_, the little voice in Hanley's mind said quietly.

He suddenly remembered something someone had whispered to him once in a foxhole. It had been just before dawn and they'd almost been overrun. He'd shared hours of life and death with the man and wouldn't know his face if he saw it right now_. It's a Bible verse, Lieutenant. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'_

Caje lifted his head, not able to make out the murmur. "Lieutenant?"

Hanley climbed out of his foxhole and stood up. "We're not going to do this, Caje. We're not going to borrow trouble when we already have more than enough. He probably just got cuffed alongside the head and his eardrum's ruptured. Happens all the time. The sooner we get out of here the sooner he gets to the docs, so let's go. I want to be ready to leave the second it stops raining."

He deliberately made his way over to the kitchen table and hefted one of the pinecones in his hand for a moment before setting it back down, vaguely perturbed to find his hands were shaking. He had to admit, when Caje first told him of the incident in the woods he had found it hard to believe, picturing the common, Christmas tree-shaped cones. These were long and heavy.

Caje quietly crunched his way over the dirty floor to stand next to Hanley in the gloom. He didn't say anything for a minute but Hanley could feel the unusual anger and resentment rolling off him. "I still don't understand why we're bothering with this, Lieutenant. He's an active, armed threat, and we're gonna risk our lives tryin' to take him alive."

"We need him, Caje," Hanley said woodenly. "S-2 needs him."

"But Lieutenant, what if he doesn't even talk? What if he escapes? We could just chuck a live one down there now and be done with it."

"No."

"But sir—"

Hanley's hands shot out to suddenly grab the front of Caje's jacket and he yanked him forward. "Don't you think I want to?!" he shouted hoarsely, his voice rising. "Don't you think I want to scrape up every grenade we have and throw 'em right down his throat?!"

He shook him once before shoving him away, only to pursue him and get back in his face, pointing wildly in Saunders' direction. "You weren't there, Caje! He… he s-screamed, they threw that slop on him an' he screamed…" Hanley turned and violently cleared the table in a single sweep, before reaching for a broken lantern he'd missed and hurling it at the exposed part of the cellar door with all his strength.

Caje watched for a moment as he stormed through the kitchen, before bending down to quietly start picking things up.

Hanley quickly wore himself out, giving one last savage kick to the shattered remains of a wine rack before standing with his head down and fists clenched, his chest heaving. When he finally looked up, Caje was standing in front of him with an armful of pinecones. "You know Lieutenant, I read somewhere once that hangin' is a bad way to go, a real bad way. 'Specially when ya gotta wait for it…"

Hanley snorted softly and gave a small smile, reaching up to lay a hand on Caje's shoulder before nodding once and lowering his head again. He was constantly amazed at the quality of the men he was fortunate enough to have around him. He squeezed his shoulder, wordlessly communicating everything he couldn't say—apology, gratitude, respect.

He sighed and dropped the hand, bringing both up to cover his face and rub at his aching temples, trying to reorient himself. That little tantrum had done nothing for this epic headache. He opened his eyes and waved a hand at the kitchen table, indicating he wanted Caje to put the vegetation back down.

Hanley turned and made his way across the room over to Saunders, anxious now that maybe all that crashing had awakened him, perhaps frightened him, but no. He was still out. The lieutenant brushed the wheat-colored hair back from his forehead and rested a light hand there, checking for fever. He shook his head and tugged at the blankets, his throat tight. "Just a little bit longer," he murmured. "We'll all be home soon, I promise. Before you know it you'll be back to striking terror into the hearts of privates everywhere."

Caje watched from across the room as he slid him a little further from the fire and stood up, looking down at him. After a few moments, Hanley picked his way through the barricade and walked purposefully toward the kitchen, drawing the .45 from his waistband and checking it as he did so. Satisfied the safety was off, he replaced it and stepped up to the table.

"How is he, sir?"

"He's starting on a fever." Hanley picked up Caje's Schmeisser with the intention of handing it to him.

"I gotta tell ya, Lieutenant, I don't see that Kraut falling for this."

Hanley half-turned to point loosely at Saunders with a pinecone. "If they fooled _him_," he said softly, before gesturing with the SMG at the cellar, "…then they'll fool him. Besides…" He surprised Caje then with the genuine, slightly unstable smile that spread over his dirty face as he handed him the gun. "I never really thought we needed them, anyway."

Caje looked seriously at him, painfully aware the officer was carrying around his own significant concussion. "I'm sorry, sir?"

Hanley stacked the cones in one large hand, still smiling. "He's either coming up of his own volition or he's not, and I'll kill him if he doesn't. We're not going down there. Maybe the pinecones will help, maybe they won't." His even, white teeth flashed in the gloom and he shrugged. "I think it's gonna be pretty fun to find out, though."

Caje laughed quietly under his breath as he followed his lieutenant to the cellar. "For us, maybe."


End file.
